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Chapter Text

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice was softer. Softer than usual. That meant important news. Sherlock looked up, hoping for some insight to the case, but Lestrade was holding his phone tightly. "Did you know you had a kid?"

Sherlock stared.

Lestrade choked on air "Like...a child? Sherlock- are you winding me up? Because I just got a phone call from child protection services- they say you've got a four year old without a mother- is that...I don't-" his eyes flickered left and right, processing and handling the information he'd just received. Surely it couldn't be right, surely the Virgin could never have had a child!

"The Woman." Sherlock breathed, glittering blue eyes wide as he to processed the information. He hadn't seen her in what, five years? Since he had saved her from beheading, and they had celebrated. But why would child services contac- she was dead. Whoever was after her had found her, it appeared, and now there was a kid- Sherlock's child. "I...was unaware, but it's not that surprising really. Where are they?"

"Wait so- this is real? You actually have a child? I thought you were...asexual or something?"

Sherlock ignored him, pulling out his phone to call his brother.

"What is it Sherlock? I'm in the middle of a very important meeting with the Prime Minister."

"Talks about secret bombs to Iran can wait, Mycroft, I have a more pressing matter that requires your attention."

"How did you kn-" There was a sigh of acceptance "You're 28 years old now, Sherlock. Time to grow up and handle problems on your own."

"Mycroft, I wouldn't be calling if I didn't need you here. The Woman...she has a child."

Silence. "Are you 100% sure it's yours?"

Sherlock paused. "No. But fairly certain due to timings. I'll get everything tested later but she's dead, and the child's been left to me. I don't know how to handle any of that paper work."

"You want me to come down and file paper work for a child that may or may not be related to me? Just because you never learned how to fill out forms? Sherlock-"

"What if it is mine? What if this four year old is mine, Mycroft? Your nephew. You're first and possibly only nephew."

A muttered curse. "Give me 10 minutes."

"Make it 5." And Sherlock snapped his phone shut, whisking gracefully past Lestrade who was still staring, absolutely gob-smacked. Sherlock doesn't stop pacing the police station's reception, black coat fluttering out behind, striped scarf in his preferred European knot, shiny black shoes clicking against the floor. His mind is a whir, and it's only then he realises that he never asked. Boy or a girl? He's suddenly interested, intrigued even, and the more he thinks about it, the more intrigued he becomes. What was the product of Irene and his genetics? Smart. That was almost a given. What was their name? He was suddenly yea-

"Oh Sherlock!" His mother Violet gushed, rushing into the police station and wrapping her arms around Sherlock. Sherlock turned irritably at Mycroft, who simply shrugged, umbrella perched on his forearm, their father Henry standing beside them.

"So it is true, Sherlock?" Henry whispered "You do actually have a child?"

Sherlock massaged his temples, attempting to pry his mother's arms off him "Yes Father, why would I lie about that?"

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

Sherlock shrugged helplessly.

Their father smiled, "I bet it's a boy. We Holmes' always produce boys. Oh Sherlock, what's his name?"

"Or hers," Violet smacked Henry's arm "I'd love a little girl just as much as a little boy."

"Mother, Father," Mycroft called in a steady voice "Sherlock knows nothing more than you do. All we know is that the mother is Irene Adler, and that she's now dead. The child is four years old, and we're not even sure if it's Sherlock's." He gestured to the chairs "Now, it's been a long time since all of us have been in the same room together, let's sit down, talk about how this is going to work." He, Henry and Violet sat, while Sherlock stood stubbornly, chin jutting outwards, arms crossed. Mycroft sighed, running a sophisticated hand through light hair "Don't be a child, Sherlock. Sit down."

Sherlock stuck his tongue out.

"Well," his father pushed on "There's the matter of where they're going to live-"

"With me. Obviously." Sherlock frowned "Isn't that what happens?"

"You're out of the house a lot, Sherlock. A four year old needs someone constant-"

"Mrs Hudson is there."

Mycroft sighed. "What about school?"

Henry cleared his throat "All Holme's children attend Mulberry. It has always been that way."

Mycroft and Sherlock shot each other a look. They hadn't liked Mulberry.

Henry caught it. "It's a fine establishment. Traditional values, always produces high powered people. Just look at the two of you! Besides, maybe your child won't hate sport as the two of you seem to."

"Oh I'm so excited," Violet gushed, eyes twinkling "Aren't you excited, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shot her a look. "Ecstatic."

The main door opened, and in walked a blonde woman, smiling brightly in a luminous green jacket and police hat. She was holding hands. The entire Holme's family shifted to look.

A boy. A little four year old boy. He was...beautiful. With Sherlock's bright blue eyes. His skin was pale and fair, his hair soft and golden. His nose was much more Adler than Holmes, much more delicate. He was wearing black trousers, and a soft chequered shirt. He seemed thinner than he ought to be, a little frail, but Sherlock was sure he could fix that up. And then the little boy turned, and met his gaze, and his mouth opened a little. "Daddy?" He whispered, and Sherlock froze. The words were whispered so adoringly, so trustingly and lovingly, and Sherlock had never heard anyone talk about him like that. But how...how did he know-

the boy raced to his father, hugging him tightly, and some instinct called to Sherlock, and the consulting detective found him lifting up his son, hugging him tightly. He was tiny. Tiny and beautiful, and he buried his face into Sherlock's neck, hands fisting into his lapels.

"Well," Mycroft drawled in surprise "That's not very Holmes like, is it?"

The boy peeked up at the voice, cocking his head ever so slightly in a way that had Violet and Henry reeling from how much it was like Sherlock. "Uncle Mycroft?" he asked curiously, but then kept examining him and nodded. He smiled brightly "Hello!"

"Uncle..." Mycroft stared, and then stepped forward, arms out. Sherlock glared at his brother, but then his little boy wriggled, as though he wanted to hug Mycroft, which was ridiculous because nobody ever wanted to hug Mycroft. But he relented, and Mycroft abandoned his umbrella to wrap his arms around the child. He knew everything he ever needed to know about his nephew in that instance. He was perfect. Sherlock dug his nails into his palms jealously, as his boy was passed from Violet to Henry, and then back to Mycroft. He turned to the child worker, who seemed pleased by the reception.

"It's a good thing he responded so well." She smiled encouragingly, getting out some paper work, and almost instantly Mycroft was by his side, Violet and Henry still coddling the four year old. "No court will want to take him away after that." Sherlock rolled his eyes, with Mycroft as his brother, no court would be talking away anything. "Okay, so his name is John Hamish Adler, but I assume you'll be adding your own surname?" both brothers nodded "Great," she smiled again, scribbling something down "He's due to start school in a couple of months, but you'll get a letter about all that. We found him in Afghanistan, his mother nowhere to be found." She looked sobered for a moment "Irene is dead, we found her body-"

"I don't need to know the details." Sherlock cut her off, but the rudeness seemed more as though he was hurting than the fact he was bored, so she excused it.

"Well...that's it then, I suppose. You'll have a check by social services in a few weeks, but this is such a high ranking family, the adoption papers will come through soon. Will there be anything else?"

Sherlock was itching to have John back in his arms. It was addictive.

"John," Mycroft toyed with the name "A little simplistic, isn't it?"

"We can't make it any longer, Mycroft. I think John Hamish Adler Holmes is quite long enough already, don't you?" He strutted back towards his parents, and picked up John easily. John looked up in surprise, before giggling, reaching up to pat Sherlock's hair. "How did you know who I was?" He asked curiously, and John frowned, tilting his head again

"You're curious." He whispered, and bopped Sherlock's nose. Sherlock rolled his eyes as his family laughed

"How?"

"Mummy showed me pictures," John nodded "Of you. And Uncle Mycroft. She said-said when she died I had to come and f-find you." John was looking around now, interested in things happening elsewhere in the police station, before he turned back to Sherlock, eyebrows pushing together "She said you loved me."

Sherlock looked down at the little boy and swallowed. "Well...it takes time to...love things."

John didn't seem to like that answer, but said nothing more.

...

...

...

John seemed quite content to explore 221 Baker Street, he examined all of Sherlock's experiments and laughed at the weird things in the fridge, and then Sherlock showed him his bedroom. "This is where you'll sleep and...well you know, it's your bedroom."

He pushed John forward, and John looked around the guest bedroom. He turned back to Sherlock, almost disappointed "There's no colour!" He called, and Sherlock sighed

"Well you can paint it any colour you like."

John pouted, looking so utterly small and ridiculous in the huge room, and he looked around horrified "I have to paint it all by myself?" He whispered, and Sherlock resisted the urge to laugh.

"No, I'll help. You wouldn't be able to paint higher than a meter."

...

...

...

The months flew by.

It was easy, god no, Sherlock was away for days at a time solving cases, and John was left with Mycroft, or his grandparents, or Mrs Hudson. Violet and Henry had come to help John pick things out for his room, and got him all fitted for his uniform, and enrolled him into the school he would be starting soon. Sherlock read a bedtime story for the first time in his life, and became rather taken with John falling asleep on his chest. Of feeling another heartbeat against his. He took to running his fingers through smooth golden hair, and listened with fascination to all of John's story's about his mother. Irene, had apparently told John that she would die one day when he was young, she'd prepared him for it, trained him for how to deal with it. Told him to find Sherlock and Mycroft, told him they would take care of her. She had left John a rather substantial amount of money.

"That..." Sherlock paused as he came downstairs "Is a terrifying flash from the past."

Mycroft nodded, sipping tea, as he sat in one of the armchairs, both of them looking at little John in his school uniform. It fit perfectly, black blazer, deep purple scarf and black jumper, completely neat and posh and restricting. "Exactly what I thought."

"What are you doing here anyway?" Sherlock grumbled, heading for the kitchen as John fiddled with his shoes

"It's his first day of school. I assumed you would forget so I came to get him ready."

"I didn't forget." Sherlock glared at him "I simply deleted the information."

"Ah, yes," Mycroft nodded, eyes hard "Not important enough to keep stored up there." He stood, tall and powerful, and Sherlock watched wordlessly, understanding exactly what was being implied. "You've been remiss with your care lately, Sherlock. This past week, I've seen him more than you have. Let's face facts, you're getting bored, aren't you?"

Sherlock whirled around to see if John was hearing any of this, but the little boy was now off on the steps, examining his school back. "How dare you!"

Mycroft simply shrugged "It's true, isn't it? You don't love him. You were interested at first, because he was Irene's, because he recognised you from some pictures, but you're getting bored. You're treating him more like a flatmate than your four year old son!"

"He is my son, Mycroft, and you can't tell me how to raise him-"

"You wouldn't have sent him to school today if I hadn't arrived Sherlock. He wouldn't have a uniform if mother and father hadn't taken him shopping. And you never did paint his room with him, did you?" Mycroft harmed, flicking imaginary lint from his shoulder "He told me all about that while I taught him how to play chess." Sherlock glared, but it felt like a cut across the heart. John had talked about him, to Mycroft? John always seemed so quiet. So independent. "What have you taught him so far, Sherlock? Have you even ever told him that you love him? Have you ever told him any stories about his mother?"

"Fine!" Sherlock whirled around, night robe flying around him "If you raise him so much better, fine! He's yours!" And the door slammed.

John came rushing back in, pink faced and flustered "What's happening?" He asked curiously, and Mycroft lifted him up "Is Daddy not coming to say goodbye?"

"Daddy's busy right now," Mycroft whispered, and John nodded slowly

"Oh."

And at 3:00pm, Sherlock was sitting in his parents house, plucking on violin strings, while his mother rearranged the floral display and his father continued with a book, when Mycroft and John walked in. John was beaming, and he ran to Sherlock, holding up a piece of paper. "I got 8 out of 10 on my spelling test, daddy!" He called, pulling on Sherlock's trouser leg. He was smiling so widely that Sherlock thought he might hurt something.

Sherlock shrugged "So?"

John was still enthusiastic "I was top of my class! The second was Mary and she only got 6!"

Sherlock plucked another string "And?"

Now John started to doubt that this was a good thing. He stopped offering the test paper to Sherlock, and looked down at it, disappointed. Unaware that the rest of the family was watching this little encounter. "I..."

"What did you get wrong?"

John peered at the sheet "Um...V-velocity and p-pi-piano." Came the quiet voice. Sherlock hummed, returning to his violin

"Then you should learn those."

"U-uh huh." John whispered, tears glistening in his eyes, but Sherlock didn't see them, because he wasn't looking. John turned swallowing thickly, test paper shaking in his little hands, as he rushed from the room.

Sherlock looked up when he felt three pairs of eyes on him. "What?" He snapped, and his mother shook her head

"Oh Sherlock, why did you have to be so cruel?"

"Cruel?!"

"He wanted you to congratulate him," Henry admonished

"For what? A spelling test? I'm no-"

"Sherlock." Mycroft said firmly "May I speak with you in the conservatory?" Sherlock huffed, but as soon as they were out of the room Mycroft ushered him upstairs, to the guest room that now belonged to John. He had a room in everyone's home. Even Lestrade's. "Wait here." Mycroft whispered outside John's door, before knocking and entering, leaving the door open a sliver, so that Sherlock could see in, and listen. "Hello John," Mycroft whispered, sitting beside John at his desk "What are you doing?"

John didn't look up, but his breath was stuttered and choked "L-learning the spellings." He whispered "I-I thought Velocity was s not c. A-and I-I put an e a-at the end of piano."

"John, 8 out of 10 is a good score. An amazing score. For your first ever test, I'm proud of you," he wrapped an arm around John.

"B-but d-daddy-" and John looked up and Sherlock was struck. His face was red and blotchy, tear stains on his cheek, lip quivering. Had Sherlock done that? Had Sherlock made him cry? A terrible feeling clenched his stomach. "Daddy wa-wants me to do better, so I-if I can get 10 out of 10, maybe he'll..."

Mycroft pulled John onto his lap, hugging him more tightly "Maybe he'll what, John? Be proud of you?"

"No," John shook his head, burying his face into Mycroft's chest "Maybe he'll...l-love me?"

Mycroft and Sherlock stiffened, before Mycroft chuckled "Don't be stilly, John. Your father loves you more than he's ever loved anything."

"No." John whined pitifully "He doesn't. Mummy said he wouldn't, but he doesn't!" And fresh tears started anew. Mycroft glared at Sherlock through the door crack, and Sherlock felt something wet slide down his own face.

...

...

...

John woke up when his bedroom door creaked open, and he smiled once he saw it was his father, being haloed by the light from the hallway. He yawned, rubbing his eyes with his tiny fist "I learnt how to spell Velocity, Daddy," he whispered, and suddenly Sherlock was on his bed, wrapping John in the blankets and holding him close, John couldn't see his face, but Sherlock's voice was hitching.

"I love you," he whispered into John's ear "I love you so much. You're my little boy. Mine, and nobody else's, you here me? I don't care if your scored 0 out of 10, John. I will always be proud of you because you are my little boy, alright?"

John stared up at him, eyes wide with shock. "Really?" He whispered, and Sherlock held him so tightly, brown curls soft against John's cheek.

"I'm gonna be a better father now, I promise. I promise."

His four year old giggled happily "You're perfect now." He paused a moment "But you could read me the Gruffalo. If you wanted."

Sherlock smiled. "I want."

Chapter Text

"Sherlock, I know I've said it before, but I will say it again for your benefit. John should not be allowed at crime scenes!" Lestrade tried, hands on his hips as Sherlock knelt down in the street, examining the broken and twisted corpse.

"Why are you telling me?" Sherlock frowned "Talk to John. He's the one you've got the problem with."

John looked up, appearing out of seemingly nowhere. He looked hurt. "You've got a problem with me?" he asked, voice quivering and quiet. Lestrade sighed, the kid was only 14. That wasn't old enough to be seeing mutilated corpses and what not. "You don't need to worry, Greg," John offered "If you stopped me seeing corpses here, I'd still see them at home. Dad dumps all the heads in the fridge, right next to my lunch sometimes," he grumbled a little and Greg sighed. Before John smiled brightly "Besides, it's only natural, people die." He shrugged. Greg stared. John was wearing a black coat, he'd shot up a fair bit now, all the Holmes' boys were tall after all, and John was going to prove no different.

"Well...don't you have homework to be doing, or something?" Lestrade asked

"He's right, John," Sherlock sighed, standing up "You haven't been very much help here." John flinched, and Sherlock raised a hand to smooth through John's soft blond hair. "Not lik- I didn't mean it like that," Sherlock whispered, voice soft and gentle in a tone that Lestrade felt honoured to hear since it was reserved so specially for John. "What I meant is...your powers of deduction specialise in the emotions of people. We have no suspect here, and the woman is dead, the only emotion you felt off her was fear, which to be honest, is perfectly expected." John looked up at him solemnly

"But you're leaving on Sunday," he whispered "I wanted to spend time with you."

"I don't want to go." Sherlock soothed, "You know that. If Lestrade only had a proper team they wouldn't keep sending me away from my only son."

It was Lestrade's turn to flinch. "Listen, I'm sorry John," he murmured "But people are dying out there-"

"I know, and dad's the only one who can stop them." John waved him off, "Right then, I'll..." he looked around, "I'll catch a taxi home." And he wandered away. Sherlock watched him go, saddened, and Lestrade didn't know what to say.

...

...

...

Violet pressed her lips together so as not to say anything, but she truly did love this. Her large, rich house felt so much more like a home like this. With Henry asleep on the armchair, book in his lap, snoring away, the fire crackling as he polished the table, with John and Mycroft talking over a game of chess. The icing on the cake would be if Sherlock were here, busy concocting some ridiculous science experiment in the garden.

"What do you think I should be when I grow up, Uncle?" John asked, pushing his rook forward. Mycroft examined the rook, right hand twitching to take it, but not rising to the bait, because this was Sherlock's son, and John probably wanted him to do that.

"Hm...well, you're in the perfect position to go into some high up government job. Right family, right school, wouldn't be too difficult. Or secret service if you were interested with that. Or police force. Any police force would be lucky to have you." He ended up moving his knight. Putting pressure on the rook, but not taking it. "What were you thinking about?"

"Don't tell anyone," John's voice dropped into a whisper, and Mycroft leaned close, feeling a glimmer of glee float through him. It would sound weird to say that John was his best friend, but he was. Kind hearted and loyal, he trusted Mycroft with secrets he told to no other. "But...I kind of wanted to join the army. Fight in Afghanistan." He paused, and Mycroft's face must have given something away. "Don't do that." John whined "Why are you doing that?"

"Why Afghanistan?" asked Mycroft carefully.

"Why do you think?"

"John, your mothers killers are de-"

"Their organisation isn't." He snapped, before calming down "Besides, that's not the only reason. People are...are getting hurt over there, and I wanna...help them? I don't know. My friends say there aren't many genuinely brave enough to go marching off there, but I've thought about it. I could, Uncle Mycroft. And...the army is sort of related to the government, right?"

Mycroft half smiled "That's very noble, John."

...

...

...

"Why did you tell him that was okay?" Sherlock yelled, storming into the room, with all the right as the God Zeus. Henry and Violet jumped, and John was staring hard at the ground from the doorway. Mycroft sipped his tea.

"I don't remember saying that. I remember supporting his chosen career."

"The army? The bloody army?! You want my son- your nephew, to go marching off into war voluntarily?!" he screamed, tousled brown hair flung in very direction, seething pure, radiating anger. Violet stood, turning to John

"You want to join the army?" she whispered, and he said nothing, looking at the ground. Violet turned to Sherlock, worried, and Sherlock sighed, frustrated.

"I told him he wasn't allowed to speak for the remainder of the evening. And he's grounded. For 2 weeks. I'm not entirely sure what grounded means, but...I've read books." He whirled back to Mycroft, eyebrow raised challengingly, before Mycroft stood up.

"Sherlock, this is your son. Have you even listened to his reasons behind it-"

"Didn't need to." Sherlock replied flippantly "Yes, it's very noble. He wants to help people. He also has an agenda for bringing down his mother's killers, which is perfectly fine by me. But that doesn't deter from how dangerous it is. I will not have my son die somewhere alone with a bunch of soldiers who probably ran away from home-"

"He's old enough to start making his own decisions, S-"

"No he's not!" Sherlock practically stomped his feet "No! He's not! He's fourteen years old for Chr-"

"John," Violet said quietly "Why don't you go upstairs?"

John nodded, before clearing his throat, and Sherlock turned, nodding his permission for John to say something. “Dad,” he said quietly “I just want to do what you do. I want to help people,” his eyes burned blue and earnest. Sherlock’s jaw clenched

“I don’t put myself in constant danger. I rarely carry a gun or put myself in the way of bombs or drag myself away from my family. I think about things, John. What you’re proposing you do with your life is stupid. Plain and simple, stupid. And anyone who is a Holmes, isn’t stupid.”

John stared at him, before nodding “Right. My uh…my life choices are stupid. I’m…I’m stupid.”

Sherlock said nothing.

John turned, and he silently drifted upstairs.

“Oh Sherlock,” Violet admonished “I don’t like it more than you do, but look at him. He wants to go-“

“He’s a child. He hasn’t thought about it yet. I’m meant to…to protect him! How can I do that when he’s off putting himself in danger? It’s like he doesn’t think about me at all! Doesn’t he know what that would do to me? Mycroft-“ he turned to his brother pleadingly “Surely you don’t want him to go!”

Mycroft sighed “It would be regrettable but…oh Sherlock, if he is being serious about this, his bravery and nobility would be a credit to his family. He would be noted in our history books. Perhaps all history books. And if he hated it, I could always pull some strings, get him out.”

Sherlock collapsed into an armchair, arm up, as he descended deep into his mind palace, to think about things.

…

…

…

John pushed open the window, chancing a look down. High, but he and his father had fallen from higher. He climbed out along the branch, good with his weight and his balance, he jumped down, silent as a panther, and ran. He was light on his feet, and instead of going for a main road, he headed down towards more fielded pastures, wading through longer and longer grass, the hot evening sun burning down onto his face, and he sighed at the freedom.

His mother would want him to fight.

The thought came unbidden, surprising, as he ran into a thinly wooded area, following the sound of a stream. How long since he had thought of her? Years? Years and years. But she would. She would have encouraged it. He held on to the thought of her, of her dark brown hair and elegant movements. He thought of how she had held him, prepared him. The memories were fuzzy, seen through unclear eyes. Afghanistan had been his home. He’d been raised in a lovely house in the mountains, with fields and fields of green around them. A kind man had brought them food, and John had a small monkey that ate the fruit in a tree near their home.

He was panting, and exhausted by the time that sun had nearly all gone, and had reached the stream. He thrust both hands into it, and rubbed his face, feeling rather like Bear Grylls, before he clambered up a tree, finding a suitable branch and getting comfy.

It was barely fifteen minutes later, when he was near to sleep, that he realised his father might be worried.

Sherlock reacted a lot more calmly than expected. “He’s my son,” Sherlock had sighed when everyone offered to help, he declined Mycroft’s drones “I’ll find him. We think alike.”

“One day,” she whispered, “One day soon, John, I’m not going to be here. Okay?”

“I know, mummy,” he whispered, snuggling into her chest

“And who do you go to find when that happens?”

“Daddy.”

“Or?”

“Uncle Mycroft.” But suddenly John wasn’t 4 anymore, he was 14, and he was watching his mother stand outside their house. “Don’t go.” He whispered brokenly “Stay. We can both go and find dad, together.”

“Johnny,” she closed her eyes “My beautiful son. Wait inside. Don’t come out. No matter what happens.”

“I’m staying with you. Teach me how to use the gun. I can help-“

“John.” She said, more firmly now, blinking back tears “Go inside.”

There was sounds now, of people running, people with guns clashing against medals. “No!” John roared, rushing forward, only now something was restraining him. He shifted “Mum! Mum! Stop I can’t help! I can-“

John jolted when he woke up. Breathing heavily he wiped the sweat from his brown on this cold night, and peered into the darkness, relaxing fractionally. “Only a dream,” he murmured, laughing weakly at his own stupidity, rubbing the heels of his palm against his eyes as owls hooted somewhere far off into the distance. “Stop being so stupid. Stupid just like dad says you are.” He sat up further, rubbing his back. His eyes gradually shifted, pupils expanding. A robin landed beside him on the branch, curiously awake. “I’m going home now,” John explained quietly to the robin, who said nothing.

“A dream?”

John froze, hands tight around the branch, he looked around. “Uncle Mycroft?” He whispered hopefully.

His father stepped out of the shadows, skin ghostly pale and charming in the moonlight. He looked up at John, who shrank back at his knowing gaze. “You weren’t have a dream. You were having a nightmare.”

“Dad-“

“I didn’t know you thought of your mother. I…” his face flickered with something John had never seen “I…didn’t even consider it.”

John closed his eyes. “She would have been on my side.” He said quietly “She would have wanted me to fight.”

Sherlock was there suddenly, pulling him down from the tree as though he were still a baby. He placed John on a rock, so they were the same height, and hugged him ferociously. “I am always on your side.” He whispered.

John felt baby-ish, but curled his face in to Sherlock’s bare neck, finding the warm skin inviting. “’m not stupid.” He whispered, and Sherlock carded long fingers through John’s hair.

“I know.” He murmured “But I was thinking…Mycroft’s idea, actually, but…if you want to help people, why not be a doctor?”

John thought about it for a moment. “An army doctor?”

Sherlock made an irritated, fond huff against John’s forehead. “That’s marginally less dangerous.” He was quiet for a moment. “Why did you tell Mycroft before me?”

“Because however he reacted, I knew you would react worse. I wanted to brace myself.”

Sherlock hugged him tighter. “Smart boy.”

Chapter Text

“Daddy,” John murmured, reaching up to capture another leaf.

“Yes, John?”

“I’m tired.”

Sherlock smiled fondly “Why don’t you go to sleep?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And so Sherlock walked through the park, dressed in his smart black coat, purple tie, polished shoes, with his four year old sat on his shoulders, fast asleep, face cushioned on Sherlock’s soft hair. The afternoon sun warmed them both.

“Well, aren’t you the perfect picture of fatherhood?” Lestrade asked, mouth full of a sandwich, Sherlock recoiled at in disgust. “It’s only been a couple of months, that kid has you wrapped right around his little finger.” He peered up at John, swallowing, before rolling his eyes “Blimey! You even have him dressing as you!”

“I didn’t buy him these clothes,” Sherlock sighed “He went shopping with my mother. Chose everything himself.” But secretly, Sherlock was pleased that John wanted to look like him. He’d started wearing a black coat and purple scarf, trying to dress smarter, he’d even asked if he could die his hair dark, but Sherlock had told him that their eyes were so similar there was no need. And then he had also noted that his hair was similar to that of Mycroft’s, and Sherlock liked that.

“Just what we need. Another you.” Lestrade took another bite, seemingly thoughtful “He any good at deductions?”

Sherlock paused. “I don’t…know. I shall test it.”

Lestrade paled, as though he felt guilty for whatever he had just put John up to. “Yeah well, don’t get upset if he can’t, right?”

Sherlock reached a hand up, to touch John’s tiny leg. “Of course I know that.” He snapped. Lestrade nodded.

“Anyway, how’s he doing in that new school?”

“Average in maths. Above average in sciences. Excelled in English. Teacher said he had a flair for creative writing.”

Lestrade made a face “That’s not very practical, is it?”

“Actually,” Sherlock’s voice took on a warm, honeyed tone “It was my favourite thing to learn. An imagination. You have no limits if you have an imagination. That’s my main problem with Anderson.”

Lestrade chuckled “Yeah well, you would say that.”

Sherlock blinked. “Why would I say that?”

“Well…cuz he’s your son. People always say nice things about their children.”

“Do they really?”

“Yes,” Lestrade sighed “I’ve never heard you say anything bad about him.”

“Well…” Sherlock thought for a moment, before shrugging gently “That’s because there is nothing.”

Lestrade laughed, and then laughed again at Sherlock’s blank face.

…

…

…

“Daddy?” John rubbed his eyes, sitting up from the sofa, frowning at seeing his father just sitting there, hands clasped, watching him. “You ‘kay?” His voice was so high pitched and sweet and adorable. Sherlock nodded.

“John, when you look at me, what can you deduce?”

“Deduce?”

“What can you tell? Just by looking at me.”

“Um…” John bit his bottom lip “You’re curious? You’re…peaceful?”

“Anything else? When was the last time I ate a peach?”

John stared at him.

Sherlock sighed. “Alright, give me a moment.” And he left. He was back with Mrs Hudson, who had been in the middle of baking a pie. John glanced at her, and back to his father.

“Frustrated? Annoyed? Fond?”

Sherlock pushed Mrs Hudson away and placed his hands on his hips thoughtfully. “I think…” he snapped his fingers with a smile “That I’ve got it.” John looked up at him adoringly, hands held high, and Sherlock revelled in the fact that John loved him more than anything. That Sherlock was his everything, and adoration and infatuation, and utter awe. Sherlock had never felt a love so pure and so innocent, and he revelled in every minute of it. He told everyone he knew about his sons’ powers of deduction, that whenever he wanted, by just a glance, he could tell everything that one person was feeling. Sherlock was yet to try it out on a corpse, but he was waiting. Mycroft had been impressed, his parents nodded approvingly, and Lestrade had nearly collapsed with laughter, calling his son the polar opposite of Sherlock. One who could never quite get emotions, and the other who saw them with a flicker of an eye.

Sherlock watched John get towelled off by Mrs Hudson. He hadn’t quite managed bathing John yet, and the water was always wrong, so much so that John just asked that Mrs Hudson did it instead, which Sherlock was fine with. “You like looking like me,” Sherlock managed as John skipped to the door, ready to go for dinner at their parents’ house for Mycroft’s birthday.

John nodded, he was dressed in a crisp white shirt, tucked into pressed black trousers, a scarf hanging around his neck, a present in his hands. “Will Uncle like it?” he asked curiously, and Sherlock shrugged, placing a hand gently but steering on the back of John’s neck.

“I don’t know. I don’t give him presents.”

“Why?”

“I just…Mycroft’s already has what he wants. Besides, it’s not like he ever gives me presents.”

“Maybe it’s because you never give him any.”

Sherlock looked down in faint surprise, and John lifted up his hand, trusting that Sherlock would carry him. It was well placed trust. He hoisted John up onto his hip, people always seemed a lot nicer to him when John was around. “You’re getting spoilt,” he murmured “Always wanting to be carried.”

“I like being carried,” John smiled “It’s like being hugged.” And with that, he snuggled into Sherlock’s side, perfectly content and happy. Sherlock smiled, nodding at fellow parents, feeling very grown up, and part of a special club. When they got to the large house, it smelt very much like cake, to which John responded to happily. Violet and Henry cooed at him, and then Sherlock watched as John ran to Mycroft. He hugged him tightly, and Mycroft smiled, pulling John onto his lap. “Me and daddy bought you a present.”

“Did you?” Mycroft ran a hand soothingly up and down John’s spine, his eyes drifting to Sherlock, who stood, leaning against the doorway. Watching.

“Hope you like it,” he smiled, handing the box forward. Mycroft accepted it carefully, guarding his reactions, preparing for disappointment. Pulling apart the ribbon, popping open the box, and he found himself smiling. It was a camera. John giggled. “You’re happy!” He exclaimed, and Mycroft shot a look at Sherlock

“He’s getting better at it.”

“Hey, it’s his talent. I’m simply making him practice.”

“You can take pictures of pretty things, like butterflies! O-or of daddy! Of all of us! And stick it on the wall! Or the sea! Or a jelly fish…” he went on excitedly, and Mycroft smoothed a hand through John’s hair, relaxing into the armchair, mood lifting with every passing second.

…

…

…

“When did you get so good with children?” Sherlock asked accusingly, as he and Mycroft sat over a game of chess.

“Spending time with yours.” Mycroft murmured, pushing a pawn forward.

Sherlock toyed with the idea for a moment. “He likes you.” He said eventually “A lot. Not just because of whatever Irene told him, he…he genuinely likes you. Keeps asking if you’ll come and visit. Keeps asking what games we played as a child.” Sherlock looked around, biting the inside of his mouth “What do I say if he wants a brother?”

Mycroft laughed, trying not to show his glee of how much what John thought of him meant “He won’t want a brother.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why not?”

“Why not? Because, dear brother, he loves you more than life itself. He clings to you like you alone sustain him. He would never, never share your attention with anyone. He is a very possessive little boy, and he wouldn’t let you have another child even if you wanted one.”

Sherlock’s lips lifted a little, leaning back “He wouldn’t, would he?”

“Your move.” Mycroft gestured to the board and Sherlock stood

“Checkmate in 20 moves, you win.”

“But you can-“

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded, smiling.

“Happy birthday,”

…

…

…

“Daddy,” John whispered, clambering onto the sofa where Sherlock was draped dramatically after a case, he snuggled up beside him. “I’d like a cat, please.”

“A cat?”

“Cat’s go meow.”

“Yeah but-“ Sherlock huffed a laugh “Yeah sure, we’ll get a cat.” He murmured. Knowing John, he would forget that he had even wanted one in the morning. He wrapped his arms around him, getting comfortable. “What are you doing up, anyway?”

“Postman woke me.”

Sherlock frowned, eyes flickering to the window to make sure that it was as late as he thought it was. “A postman came to the door? At…near midnight?”

“Mmhmm, he had a nice accent.”

“What did he deliver?”

John yawned, eyes closing a little more “Something for Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh.” Sherlock held John tighter, and they both drifted to sleep.

Nice accent.

Sherlock’s eyes opened. His eyes flashed around the darkened room, as John slept soundlessly beside him. Jim Moriarty. Jim Moriarty had been to his house. His home- had spoken to John! And Sherlock hadn’t been here and-

He took a deep breath.

First thing tomorrow, precautions were going to be taken.

…

…

…

“Sherlock,” Mycroft frowned, opening his door. He examined his brother curiously, the sun was only just crawling up the London horizon, and Sherlock looked frazzled, the buttons of his waistcoat done up incorrectly, but still a feat the managed they were done, four year old asleep in his arms, wrapped in a blanket. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

“Moriarty came to the house last night,” he whispered, voice low and hushed and quick “I wasn’t there, and Mrs Hudson had put John to bed, but then he came to the door dressed as a postman. Left Mrs Hudson a package, but there was nothing in it. God, Mycroft- he…” he took in a deep breath “God I wasn’t there-“

“Okay, okay,” Mycroft swallowed hard, gesturing to the sofa for John, which Sherlock placed him down on gently, the small boy continuing to snore softly, completely unaffected. Face sweet and relaxed “Why? Why would he come back now?”

“He has something to blackmail me with!” Sherlock hissed “I will not let him use John like that-“

“I’ll have someone watch the house. Double the amount of agents. Get someone watching you and John all the time.” He took a deep breath “Maybe you’d like to stay here for a while-“

“I will not let him scare me and my son out of our home.” Sherlock hissed, blue eyes blazing with passion “We need to find him this time, Mycroft! We need to find him this time and stop him!”

“I know,” Mycroft clenched his hands into fists, neatly clipped nails nearly drawing blood just at the thought. “We will, Sherlock. I promise.”

And for the first time in a long time, Sherlock hugged Mycroft.

Chapter Text

“Hello John,” Moriarty said softly, sitting down opposite him on the lunch table outside. All of John’s friends were still inside, working on their homework. John had been the only one to get them all right. John, four years old and happy, smiled.

“Hello,” he beamed, taking a bite of the turkey sandwich Mrs Hudson had made for him. After he swallowed, he gestured to his lunchbox “Would you like some?”

“Oh? Wouldn’t mind if I do,” he took the other half of John’s sandwich, and smiled.

John watched him. He had a deep, British accent, but something seemed off. He cocked his head a little “You look like our postman.” He said finally, taking another bite.

Moriarty laughed, he seemed amused, dark eyes twinkling in the afternoon sunlight. He looked a lot more carefree than normal, relaxed, in a V-neck green shirt and a pair of baggy jeans. Handsome, one would suppose. Though you wouldn't want to say it. He had an ironically approachable look when he wasn't being a total maniac. “You’re a lot smarter than your father, John, I’ll give you that. It took him ages to see me. Why do you reckon that was? I mean with both of you, I’m trying to make a fleeting impression, but I suppose…you’re a child, John. It should have been easier to trick you.”

John didn’t understand, and so instead looked around the playground, making eye contact with Mrs Riss, and felt protected.

“You see, John,” Moriarty continued, wiping his mouth delicately “You’re father can be a rather annoying man.”

“I love my daddy.”

Moriarty sneered at that. “How could anyone love him?” He spat, before catching himself, and forcing his voice to lighten up “Anyway, your dad tends to stick his nose in places it doesn’t belong,” his voice dropped into a whisper “And one day that’s going to get him into trouble.”

“What’s your name?”

“Billy,”

John’s eyes flickered slightly. Liar. “Your real name,” he sighed, sounding older than his years. Moriarty looked impressed, crossing his arms on the table and leaning down to have a proper look at John, his eyes scanning everything.

“Oh,” he murmured, Irish accent coming out “Oh you’re a lot smarter than I thought you were, wow-“ he reached a hand out, capturing John’s chin, tilting his face this way and that “You…you are remarkable, John Holmes. Look at that, you can deduct. Wonder what else you can do…” he thought for a moment “How old are you?”

“Four. I’m almost five though!”

“Your father must adore you.” He stood, grinning “Tell him I owe you a sandwich. Good day, John Holmes.”

“Your name?” John tried again

“Jim Moriarty.”

…

…

…

“I don’t see the point of writing a will.”

Mycroft sighed “Come on, Sherlock, it’s not hard. Who would you want to leave all your worldly possessions to?”

“John.”

“See? How easy was that?” Mycroft clasped his hands “But now of course, comes the task of picking god parents.” He leaned back in his chair and Sherlock frowned up at him.

“Well…you, of course.”

Mycroft smiled, trying not to make it too wide. “And the god mother?”

Sherlock stared at him hopelessly “It can’t be our mother, can it?”

“Too old,”

Sherlock hummed, looking around “I don’t…I don’t know many women. I suppose…there’s Molly? From the hospital. She’d do anything for me.”

“You’d have to ask her,”

“Right, I’ll do that now then-“

“Mr Holmes?” Mycroft looked up as his assistant walked in she pointed at his phone “We’ve got your nephew on line three. Says he tried to call his father-“ she shot Sherlock a filthy look “But he’s not answering.”

Sherlock glanced at his phone, only to see it was out of battery, he winced. Mycroft shooed her out, and answered the phone, placing it on loud speaker. “Hello John, your father and I here, what seems to be the problem?”

“Um…” his voice sounded tiny and young on the phone “Um…M-moriarty? I think that was his name. He came and had lunch with me today. Wanted me to tell daddy that, as soon as possible.”

“You…” Sherlock clawed at the desk “You had lunch with him? John- did you eat anything, anything he touched, think carefully-“

“No. He just…he took one of my sandwiches. Daddy?” John took a deep breath “He said that you never recognised him before? What does that mean? I…he looked like the same man who is our postman but when I told him that, he said you never did that. What does…” they could hear the frown in his voice “What does it mean?”

“That’s one of daddy’s old acquaintances.” Mycroft said eventually.

John whined “What does acquaintances mean?”

“Someone he used to know.”

“Oh. Daddy?”

“Yes, John?”

“Well…it’s a half day today. We finished two hours ago and you said you’d pick me up.”

Sherlock flicked himself in the forehead “Sorry, be right there.”

They could hear the smile in John’s voice “Good thing I brought my colouring book.”

…

…

…

Sherlock walked into the swimming pool area, darkness around him apart from the glimmering blue pool. He held his hands behind his back, dressed impeccably in a purple suit, watching as Moriarty stepped out of the shadows. “We’ve got to stop playing these games, Jim,” Sherlock drawled “It’s time to get to the point.”

“Quite right,” Moriarty hummed elegantly, standing on the other side of the pool, skin sickly pale in the lighting. “That John boy, is he your son?”

“I’ve taken him in.”

“But your DNA?”

“None of your concern.”

Moriarty examined Sherlock, before coming to no conclusion. “Well, either way, you care for him. That much is obvious. It’s so very boringly human of you, Sherlock. I’m sort of disappointed. But you’ve let yourself acquire such a pointless Achilles heel. You’ve basically handed me a way to blackmail you on a silver platter.”

Sherlock half smiled “Is it just me, or do you sound jealous?”

“Jealous?” Moriarty pondered it “Seems a smart child. If I were ever going to have one- which I wouldn’t, because they’re such a waste- I would want mine to be similar to yours, I suppose.” He ran his hand over his jet black hair “Who was the mother?”

“You wouldn’t know her.”

Jim grinned “I would be surprised, Sherlock. I thought you were a virgin.”

“It would be predictable of you.” Sherlock tried “To steal the boy.”

Jim shrugged “You’re right, of course. Predictable, and yet so incredibly effective. He’s a sweet boy, Holmes. Handsome, too.” Sherlock couldn’t quite school his face fast enough, as Moriarty’s laugh rang out around them “Oh Sherlock, you care more than you’ll try to admit. You’d do anything if I took him, wouldn’t you? Give me whatever I asked for. I wonder- would you kill your brother?”

Sherlock frowned “What would be the point of that?”

Moriarty shrugged “Just…interesting, isn’t it?” He crouched down, putting his fingers in the water, sending little ripples splaying everywhere. “You love John- John was it? More than Mycroft. I mean, if you had to shoot one of them, you’d shoot Mycroft, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock struggled with the question “I don’t…I don’t-“

“You couldn’t really shoot a four year old in the head, could you? I couldn’t. But then…you’ve known Mycroft all your life. He’s always been there for you, always wanted to protect you, even when you haven’t wanted him too.” He stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers “Think about these things, Sherlock. Because one day, I promise you, I promise you I am going to put you in that position.”

“For what gain?” Sherlock hissed “You would have nothing to gain from that-“

“To break you.” Moriarty said simply, dark eyes glittered “It would break you, Sherlock Holmes. Whether you killed your brother, or your son. You would break. And my god-“ he brought his hands up to cover his mouth as he smiled “It would be such a beautiful thing. To see a mind like yours break, I think…I think I might record the moment. Just for me of course, just to watch, again and again, until you killed yourself.”

…

…

…

Moriarty didn’t strike, for 12 years.

And then one warm July day Sherlock Holmes found himself strapped to a chair, facing his 16 year old son, and his brother. Both of them were bleeding and gagged. “I promised you this day, Sherlock,” Moriarty murmured, toying with the gun in his hands, as he circled Sherlock “I promised you, and I never break a promise.”

Sherlock blinked back tears, choking on air “I can’t.” He whispered “I can’t pick, Moriarty, I can’t, I can’t.”

Moriarty ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he shushed, watching tears finally overflow as Sherlock started to cry “Let’s have them convince you, huh? It’s not fair you should be doing all the work.” And with that, he strolled over to Mycroft and John, which only unnerved Sherlock further. And with a knife dangerously close to his family’s neck, Moriarty snapped the gags.

“Dad-“ John croaked, voice hoarse, some unseen head wound still sending blood trickling down his cheeks. John was almost as tall as Sherlock now, still a few good inches behind thought, with neat, soft blond hair, and eyes just like his father. He was in what remained of his school uniform- tattered as it was. He had been grabbed on the way home from school. “Dad, don’t-“

“Sherlock,” Mycroft cut him off, looking much more composed despite the rapidly forming bruises on his neck and face. Sherlock realised that Mycroft had fought against his attackers, and Mycroft never fought physically. “Kill me.”

Sherlock stared in horror. “What?”

“Kill me. Think of it logically,” his voice was soothing and clear and reassuring in Sherlock’s mess of a mind. Like a beacon of light. Tempting. “I’m older than John, more fair for me to die, he’s lived but a fraction of his life. He’s your son, Sherlock. Your flesh and blood. If you choose John, I may as well be dead to you, because you will never forgive me. And I don’t want to live in a world without your little boy.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft in awe, a dry heave making its way through his chest, and Moriarty smiled sweetly. “Well that’s beautiful, isn’t it? What about you Johnny boy? What do you have to say about that?” Sherlock tried not to see the way that Moriarty watched John. Because he watched John with a fascination that Sherlock had never seen Moriarty look at anyone before. He looked at John as though he had found an equal, someone to fight against, to challenge. He looked admiring, and...and disgustingly attracted. As though Moriarty were screaming in his mind if only he were a few years older.

“Dad…” John looked up at his father “He’s your brother. You’ll never have another one. You’ve known him longer than you’ve known me and…and you can have another son. You’re young, please, I…” John turned to the ceiling, swallowing thickly “I’ll hate myself if you kill him. I will.” Tears, unbidden, burned down John’s cheeks. “Oh Dad…” he whispered, wanting to be embraced, and Sherlock turned to Moriarty pleadingly

“Kill me.” He whispered, and Moriarty shook his head

“That wasn’t one of the options, was it?” Moriarty hummed, tapping his chin with the gun “But-“ he began thoughtfully “You know what I will do? I will throw a third option into the mix, Sherlock. You…blow your own brains out, in front of your son. And before you do it. You tell him that you blame him.”

“You’re sick.” Sherlock spat “You’re sick.”

“Maybe. But it’s an option, isn’t it? An option you’re going to take.”

Sherlock thought about it. In all honesty, he didn't think that Moriarty would kill John if he chose him. But it was not a theory he would ever be willing to test out, and so resolutely, he nodded, much to the horror of Mycroft and John. “I’ll do it.” And he was untied, and made to stand up, Moriarty passing him the gun, only as soon as he did, Sherlock aimed it right at Moriarty’s head. Moriarty sighed.

“So predictable, Sherlock.” He murmured, and suddenly red dots were aimed at Sherlock, John and Mycroft. “Kill me, and you all die. Well…huh, maybe not all of you. Keep Sherlock alive.” And suddenly the red dot disappeared from Sherlock’s forehead.

There was a shot.

Sherlock and Moriarty whirled around, to see John, lying on the floor, gun in his hand, a pool of blood- Sherlock stared in horror, belatedly realising that now Mycroft was free of his bonds, and was using Moriarty as a human shield for the both of them, dragging them outside into the blaring sunlight of the roof. As soon as they were out there, Moriarty wrangled free of their grip, surprise still wide on his face.

Before he laughed, clapping “Oh my god!” He pointed at Sherlock’s expression, and turned to the grim looking Mycroft “Oh my god! Christ Sherlock- your son shot himself to create a distraction for you- oh my god. Oh my god, he was as fucking crazy as I am. Oh my god- Sherlock! Sherlock-“ he laughed again, escaping him in hiccups, perhaps a slight tinge or tone of despair, but more insanity “Say something!”

Sherlock felt his knees crumple, and he hit the concentre, everything slowed down around him. Nothing- nothing existed but a crippling pain masked by a numbness that made his blood thick and icy.

Mycroft swallowed, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Leave us now, Moriarty.” He whispered “Enough.”

Moriarty laughed again “God, I wish I could take a picture of his face.” He made a clicking sound with his mouth “Just did! Stored it up here-“ he tapped his forehead “Forever.” He slid his hands into his pockets, exhaling smoothly “Well I guess that has been enough for one day. I best be off,” he pulled a thin radio out of his pocket, calling off his goons “Don’t touch the dead kid,” he shrugged “It’ll look like a normal suicide, nothing implicating I was ever there.” And then he threw the radio off the roof, sighing happily. “This has been a good day. Thank you, Sherlock,” he walked forward, sounding truly grateful and crouched in front of the broken detective with a smile, clasping his hands “I am never surprised, Sherlock, but your son…” he whistled, fondness and minor regret creeping into his voice “Brilliant lad. Absolutely brilliant. If you ever have another…look me up.”

And suddenly a whirring helicopter was hovering above them, and a ladder was being thrown down, Moriarty stepped onto the bottom ring, arm up holding another.

“I know,” he murmured “It’s a bit theatrical but…what can I say?” And then the helicopter rose, and whirled away.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft hissed, as soon as they were gone, kneeling in front of his brother, shaking his shoulders “Sherlock! Sherlock listen to me-“

“Kill me.” Sherlock whispered, eyes glistening, as he pushed the gun into Mycroft’s hands “Do it- please do it-“

“John’s not dead!”

Sherlock closed his eyes “Yes he is, I saw him I-I saw him ly-“

“We faked it.” Mycroft whispered, and suddenly there was another hand on his shoulder, and Sherlock looked up, to see the face of his 16 year old son, haloed by the afternoon sunlight. He was staring at his father with concern, hand soft on his neck

“Dad?” He whispered “Dad- are you okay? Dad!”

“You…” Sherlock moved his hands up in slow motion, pressing his fingers against John’s temple, which was still very much intact “You…”

“Faked it,” John beamed, pulling out the gun and a broken bag. “This bag was full of blood, I shot at this instead, and fell into it. It was Uncle Mycroft’s idea, we came up with it a few months ago-“

“Months?” Sherlock turned to look at his brother, who was still kneeling beside him, trousers getting dusty.

“We couldn’t tell you.” Mycroft said quietly “We needed your reaction to be genuine, otherwise he wouldn’t have left.”

“John…” Sherlock made a sound, like that of a wounded animal, and an overjoyed man, and pulled John to him for a bone crushing hug, and then just for the hell of it, pulled Mycroft in too. “Don’t…” he hissed at the both of them “Don’t you ever do something like that again, or I swear I’ll kill you both.”

Mycroft tried to hide a small smile, wrapping his arms tight around his brother and his nephew.

…

…

…

“You were…ah…pretty messed up there, when you thought I…offed myself.” John murmured, making tea, before heading out of the kitchen, and handing his father a cup. Sherlock rolled his eyes at his son

“Just because I thought it was a stupid thing to do.”

“Right,” John grinned, settling into the armchair opposite him “Uncle Mycroft says you asked him to kill you. What’s up dad, life not worth living without me?”

Sherlock looked at him, blue eyes burning seriously and frank “No.” He murmured, fingers tracing the rim of the cup “It isn’t.”

John stared at him wordlessly for a moment, before setting down his tea, and cramming onto the armchair with his dad, hugging him tightly. Sherlock kissing the top of his head. “Sorry,” John murmured “I didn’t mean to scare you. But I don’t want you to end your life just because I’m dead.”

“’Just because’?” Sherlock closed his eyes “John…you have no idea how important you are.”

John glanced over to the sofa, where Mycroft was asleep “I love you, dad.”

Sherlock hugged him tighter, inhaling the very essence of his little boy “I love you too,”

Chapter Text

“And what’s that?” John asked curiously. Lestrade sighed

“It’s an ink pen.”

“What for?”

“Writing. In ink.”

“Oh.” John leaned forward, tiny little fingers grasping around it, smudging ink along his palm, and throwing it down back onto the table in distaste, where thick blue ink spilled onto sheets.

“Oh Christ- Sherlock!” Lestrade called to the consulting detective, who was draped over the sofa, concentrated on his phone. He hummed in response “Your kid, he’s making a right mess here, don’t you have anywhere to put him?”

“He’s fine.” Sherlock murmured, fingers moving at ungodly speeds.

John beamed up at Lestrade, getting comfortable on his lap, before pointing at the stapler. “What’s that?” Lestrade closed his eyes, standing up and taking John over to the side, where he placed him on Sally’s desk. John made a small huffing sound. He reached his arms up when Lestrade went to move away “Uncle!” he called “Uncle!” Lestrade turned to Sherlock angrily

“Have you told him to call me that?” he accused, and the brunette smirked

“He’s four Lestrade,” Sherlock drawled, sounding very amused with the entire situation “If he wants his Uncle Gavin to carry him, I don’t see why there should be a problem.”

“Greg, Holmes. My name is Greg!” He sighed, looking down at tiny John’s face, looking up at him, eyes wide, bottom lip quivering in a way that makes him looks so bloody adorable. Lestrade mutters under his breath, but hoists John back up, hugging him. “Just so you know, I’m a detective, not a baby-sitter.”

“You make a better baby-sitter.”

Lestrade put his middle finger up when John couldn’t see. “Anyway, John,” Lestrade murmured, rubbing John’s back “What would you like to do now?” He frowned when there was no answer, pulling John back a little, he saw the boy was fast asleep. He looked around for a place to put him, before settling on the armchair in the corner of the police station-

“Oh, I’m afraid not, Lestrade,” Sherlock chimed “He’ll wake up if you did that. And he needs his sleep, I kept him up all last night to help me with experiments.”

Lestrade gritted his teeth “So I have to stay like this?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“For how long?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from his phone “6 hours.”

“Christ, Sherlock.” Lestrade murmured, subconsciously rocking John soothingly “You’re spoiling the kid.”

Sherlock paused from his phone, looking up curiously “Am I?”

Lestrade struggled, before nodding “Well yeah…you…you give him anything he wants, whenever he wants, you’ve got no structure, he can stay up as late as he wants, he’s missed a week of school because you wanted to take him camping in Ireland! You can’t do that to a kid.”

“But…it makes him happy,”

Lestrade sighed “I know it does,” he murmured

“And he doesn’t act spoilt.”

“Well not yet, but soon he’ll start getting angry if he doesn’t always get his way.”

Sherlock licked his lips “I think he already knows that he won’t always get his way.” He said certainly “His mother was brutally murdered, he’s had his whole life ripped from him when he was brought here, so if he wants to stay up a late a couple of times, yeah, yeah I think I’ll let that happen.” His voice was hard, and cold, and Lestrade nodded meekly

“No yeah…when you put it like that,” he stroked a hand over John’s head “Spoil the kid. He deserves it.”

“That’s what I thought.” And Sherlock returned to his phone, where he scanned an online science store for chemistry sets for John.

…

…

…

“Mycroft?” Sherlock called, as he walked into Mycroft’s office “Have you seen my scarf?”

“Hush.” Mycroft frowned at him, sitting at his desk, and he gestured to the other side of the room, where John was sound asleep, Sherlock’s scarf gripped possessively tightly in his grip. “Your son is asleep on some of the most important files the British Government have ever had access to,” his voice was fond, and he leaned back in his chair “You’ve been keeping him up.”

“I tell him to go to bed, but he wants to understand every experiment I’m doing.” Sherlock crept towards his sleeping son, hands itching for his scarf, but wary of waking him up. “I’ve been trying to identify a new type of drugs, every time it’s exposed to heat it falls apart with a bang. It keeps waking him up.” Sherlock caught the end of the scarf, and gave it a tentative tug, John’s sweet face frowned, eyebrows pulled together with a small indent between them, his hold strengthened. Sherlock sighed.

“Do you really need your scarf, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked “He seems fairly attached to it.”

Sherlock said nothing, watching the rising and falling of John’s chest. “Do you think I’m spoiling him?” he asked quietly, and was greeted to Mycroft’s gentle laugh

“Please, compared to us, your boy’s going to be a saint. We had everything gifted to us on a gold platter, your boy won’t be spoilt, Sherlock, surely you can deduce that.”

“I don’t give him a proper schedule apparently.”

“Ah.” The sound of creaking leather, and suddenly Mycroft was beside him “You spoke to that detective again, didn’t you? Well…he’s one of the happiest little boys I’ve ever seen, Sherlock. And you made him that way. I would tell you if I saw a problem, after all, I am the smartest person you know.”

Sherlock let out a small smile of relief, “You’ll tell me.”

“Of course I will. He’s my nephew.”

John shivers a little in his sleep, and as a reflex Sherlock pulls off his coat, to drape over the frail body. “I still need to fatten him up.” Sherlock frowned, eyes critical and appraising “We need to have dinner, the entire family. Mother will make enough to put some meat on those bones.”

Mycroft smiled “Such a hypocrite, Sherlock. How can you worry so about John, when you yourself are but a walking skeleton?”

…

…

…

“Oh, my boys!” Violet exclaimed, as she opened the door to see Mycroft, Sherlock and John “Henry! Henry look! The boys are here!”

“What for?” the voice drifted back, and Sherlock and Mycroft rolled their eyes, heading inside. Violet started on dinner fairly quickly, as the others resided to the large living room. Henry beamed at John, pulling him onto his lap. “Oh hello, Johnny, let’s look at you, huh?” and he examined the boy carefully, as Mycroft and Sherlock settled into the armchairs. “Hmm…how are you conditioning his hair, Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked “Um…with conditioner?”

“Grandpa,” John cut in, voice high pitched and little “Can we do a puzzle? I like puzzles.”

“John.” Sherlock frowned, and John jumped

“I mean- can we do a puzzle please?”

“Good boy.”

“Thanks Daddy!”

Mycroft watching the interaction with a small smile, feigning disinterest.

“A puzzle, huh?” Henry murmured, standing up and bringing John up with him as he headed over to the drawers on the side, rifling through them, until he pulls out one of the relatively simple ones, and sets it down on the coffee table, kneeling beside John who eagerly starts upturning them. They go at it for a few minutes, until everything is the right way up, and all the edge pieces have been pushed to one side, when John looks up, head cocked in that way that makes Henry think of Sherlock

“Aren’t you coming to play, Daddy? Uncle Mycroft?”

Sherlock and Mycroft inevitably cave, and when Violet walks in a couple of hours later, she takes a photograph of all of her boys, working in complete tandem to finish the puzzle. Henry and Mycroft are working on the border, Sherlock is working on the sky, and John is frowning over the sunflower. “Come along, boys,” she murmurs fondly “Dinner’s ready.”

And isn’t dinner a feast.

All of them sat around the wooden, circular table, which is crammed to bursting with rich, sizzling food. Every plate is full to bursting with succulent, soft chicken, steamed peas and carrots and potatoes and cauliflowers. There’s gravy and apple sauce, it smelts divine. John happily tucks in, everything has been cut into bite size pieces for him, the meat melts on his tongue, and he makes appreciative sounds to which Violet coos at.

“God, you are not feeding your boy, Sherlock,” Henry mutters, as everyone else has finished, but John keeps accepting seconds and thirds and fourths, munching away as though he’s never eaten. Sherlock smoothed an agile hand over John’s forehead, and his little boy waves at him happily, before dipping a potato in gravy and chewing away.

“John,” he asks quietly, but everyone can hear. He pours John some more orange juice from the glass jug “When you lived with your mother, what did you eat?”

“Um…” John swallows, reaching for the class with both hands, gulping down a few mouthfuls “Um…” he looks thoughtful “Mummy didn’t like cooking, but there was this man who would make stuff for us. He was nice. I didn’t have lunch, we just had a big breakfast and a big dinner.” He picks his fork back up, and continues away.

“Nice and slowly,” Mycroft guides “You’ll get hiccups.” John instantly obeys, slowing how quickly he swallows.

After his sixth helping, John is feeling warm and tuckered out, and he crawls onto Sherlock’s lap, nuzzling into his chest, wanting to sleep now. “Okay, okay,” Sherlock chuckles “I’ll take you upstairs,”

“No,” John pouts “With you.”

Sherlock stands, rolling his eyes “Alright then, I guess I’m going for a nap too,”

Violet smiles, clearing up the plates, and Mycroft grabs his phone. “I’ll wake you when we have to leave;”

Sherlock lies on the soft bed, arms wrapped around John, both still in their day clothes. Sherlock likes this, resting with his son. Like when they’re back at the flat and he’s lying beside his little boy, reading him the Gruffalo. John whispers into the dim lighting “When are we gonna get them, daddy?”

Sherlock examines John, whose eyes are still closed, near sleep. “Get who?”

“The men,” he yawns, snuggling further into Sherlock’s chest, obscuring his father’s view of his face “The men who got mummy. When will you find them?”

Sherlock’s entire body goes rigid, and he hugs John tightly “Soon.” He manages “We’ll find them soon.” He can’t sleep after that, just lies there while John sleeps. When Mycroft comes to get them, Sherlock conveys everything in a single glance, and Mycroft nods.

Chapter Text

John wipes his hands on his jeans for the fifth time, 17 and terrified. “Please dad,” he murmurs, pacing “Don’t do anything weird- oh god, just please don’t.”

Sherlock, 41 and still devilishly handsome, leans back in the armchair, and sips his tea. He examines his son thoughtfully, he’s wearing a chequered red shirt, hair spiked a little more highly than usual, and he’s all jittery. “Relax, John,” he murmurs “Have some tea.”

John shoots him a glare “Dad, I swear to god, if you do anything- anything out of line, I will-“

There’s a knock on the door.

John doesn’t even finish his threat, he races down the stairs, though Sherlock’s not sure why. John had already given Mrs Hudson strict instructions not to answer the door under any circumstances. Sherlock listens, and he hears John’s laughter, and he’s got to say he’s intrigued. This is the longest girlfriend John has ever had, over 5 months now, and from what Sherlock’s been told, for a 17 year old to achieve that is rather impressive.

John reappears in the doorway, and Sherlock stands. Beside him, is a girl, an inch or so shorter than John, with blonde hair and a kind smile, wearing a fluffy white cardigan and faded blue jeans, not heels, Sherlock notes. Not an overly girly girl then, but the cardigan would imply she doesn’t mind what people think, and she’s happy to be herself. She’s standing close to John, angled towards him in a public display of trust, and she keeps twiddling with her hair, so she finds John attractive. “Dad,” John clears his throat “This is my girlfriend, Mary. Mary, this is my dad,”

Mary smiles at him, waving a little “Hi, Mr Holmes.” She says, and her words tremble slightly. She’s nervous. Sherlock examines her a little more, to see whether she truly is worthy for his son. Blue eyes, a little lighter than the Holmes colour, but nice all the same, she’s wearing a necklace, hidden under her shirt- but Sherlock recognises it as the necklace John bought her for her birthday, that’s good, that means she values whatever John gives her, and the fact it’s not on display means it was more subconscious that she chose to wear it, rather than to give out a message. Her nails and polished and pretty, a pale pink, matching her lipstick. She’s not wearing mascara- she’s a little too natural for that.

“Hello Mary,” Sherlock smiles “It’s wonderful to meet you, finally. And please, call me Sherlock. John’s always talking about you.”

John glares daggers at his father, but Mary blushes prettily “Really?”

Sherlock nods “Yes, all the time. And from what I can tell, all the marvellous things are true.” Mary beams with happiness, and goes twines her fingers with John’s, who flusters sheepishly. “Anyway, what’s the plan for the two of you today?”

“We’re going to the Tower of London,” Mary nods, “I have a history essay due on it, and I decided to make a trip out of it,”

“Yeah, we should go soon actually,” John peers at his watch “Just let me get my coat,” and he heads upstairs. As soon as he’s gone, Mary steps forward, and Sherlock blinks in surprise

“Sorry, Sherlock,” she smiles “I didn’t want to say this in front of John, because- well, you know how he gets-“ that makes Sherlock pause a little. Mary’s talking as though she and Sherlock are on the same level when it comes to John, and that makes Sherlock’s stomach coil uncomfortably “-but I wanted to tell you that I’m such a huge fan. I mean…John’s blog- about you, and him, and…the cases, it’s just- I mean, he’s a great writer, which you know- I mean, he did the GCSE early, but…I am just such a huge fan.”

Sherlock smiled “I didn’t realise anyone read his blog.”

“Oh.” She blinked “Everyone in my school reads it. And John’s too- I think Mulberry asked him to write for the school newspaper, but he said no.”

The brunette frowned “Why would he do that?” John was great with extra-curricular activities, rugby team leader, and football player, volunteered at a hospice a couple of hours every week. Not to mention helping with cases.

Mary laughed, “It’s kind of funny actually, he said he didn’t want the attention. You know how shy he gets.”

No Sherlock thought curiously No I did not. John never seemed shy around him. He had lots of friends.

“Ready?” John asked, smiling, in his coat, Mary nodded, and they waved at him, before heading out. “Bye dad!”

“Bye Sherlock!”

…

…

…

John came back 9 hours later, the clock struck 11pm, and Sherlock was sat at the kitchen counter, adding drops of saline into different test tubes, goggles resting on his nose.

Sherlock pretended to have been sat there the whole time, not peering out the window down at the two of them. He’d been proud to realise that John was a complete gentlemen, content to just hug Mary goodnight, but Mary had captured John’s face in her hands, and kissed him softly, and then a little more roughly, pushing John into the wall, eyes closing, and Sherlock had given them some privacy.

“Have fun?” Sherlock called, and John jumped, swallowing

“Uh yeah- didn’t think you’d still be awake,” John whispered, wincing at the very dim lighting of the kitchen. He looked flustered, cheeks pink, a lipstick smudge on his jaw line. Hair spiked up. Ah. Sherlock added another drop of saline, John’s hair had been slightly spiked this morning, for Mary’s benefit. Mary liked it spiked, and when she’d kissed him, she’d furthered the amount it stuck up. Sherlock could understand the appeal, John looked less formal with his hair spiked. He looked more…what was the word…bad-ass?

“I’m assuming you didn’t stay at the Tower of London for nine hours?”

“No, we uh…we just…you know, went around.”

Sherlock examined him, deducing. There had been a consistent light drizzle the entire evening, but John was dry, so he’d been inside, no bags, so not shopping, but maybe with Mary as she picked something out? For a birthday, perhaps? John’s collar was ruffled, in a way recognisable from the way some of his friends hugged him, so they’d run into people. Nothing illegal, probably just wondered around aimlessly with his friends. “Why did you decline writing for your school paper?” he asked suddenly.

John examined his father, deducing, and crossed his arms. “You’re disappointed.” He said finally, and Sherlock tried to hide his pride. He loved it whenever John did that. He could pick out Sherlock’s feelings before Sherlock was even aware he’d felt them. “You’re disappointed…in me?” his voice shook a little, and Sherlock stood, pulling off his goggles

“No,” he whispered “God, no, I’ve never been-“

“I can see it, dad!” John snapped, angry now “I just…I just didn’t want to! I’m not-“

“It’s okay to be shy,”

John stared at him wordlessly, before his shoulders slumped and he shook his head “No,” he whispered “No, it’s not. You’re never shy. You go up to people you don’t even know and you just do. I…I get this feeling, in the pit of my stomach, like when you’re about to go swimming, and…and I just can’t.”

“John, you have loads of friends.”

“Yeah, but…but on my blog, I never read the comments. I just see the counter going up. Plus, I’m writing about you! But…in the newspaper, I’d have to write everyday things, and the others would tell me what they thought, and it’s just an audience, and I…” he rubbed the back of his neck “I don’t like it.”

“You’re great at writing-“

“Please,” John scoffed, laughing “You’ve never even read my blog!” He reaches into the fridge, sighing. “I told you not to put decapitated heads near the milk.” He pulls out the milk, pouring himself a glass, and pushing it back. “Night dad,” and his footsteps echo as he goes upstairs.

Sherlock goes to his laptop, looks up John’s blog.

A STUDY IN PINK

My dad’s enthusiasm for a good apparent-murder-suicide never ceases to amaze me, and despite what you might thing, it’s incitingly contagious. We head down to the crime scene; a dank, decrypt, desolate room. With a body slap bang in the centre. The woman is dressed atrociously, something you would have thought you’d be willing to forgive due to the fact she’s dead, except it was such a horrendous shade of pink, we simply couldn’t.

Sherlock laughed. Actually laughed out loud.

So then, my father, famous Detective Sherlock Holmes, looks around. It’s silent for a moment or two, before he whirls on us, coat fluttering out behind him like a vigilante cape and exclaims; “Adulterous woman, from Wales, real estate worker. Oh and her husband is an accountant.”

I turn to the officers, to wonder if it’s just me who had no idea how he did it. And they look just as clueless. “How?” I managed to get out, amazed.

And so he does, as he always does, explains. Explains how the pink lady’s wedding ring is cleaner on the inside, so she removes it a lot, explains how her umbrella is dry, but underneath her collar is wet (so therefore she must have come somewhere too windy for an umbrella, with a rain from behind so she’d put up her collar, the only place being Wales), explains the care taken in appearance (as atrocious as it was) means real estate. And we stand there in awed silence. Then he says; “John, what was she feeling?”

I look at the body, and I just know. “Confused. Distraught.”

“She was carving R A C H E into the floor, any of you Scotland Yard know what it means?” he asks, just to embarrass the floor.

They don’t, obviously. Though one of them tries to be a smart ass, as though we don’t all know that RACHE is German for Revenge. RACHE is short for Rachel, the name of the pink lady’s daughter, who died during childbirth. My father, as wonderful as he is, will forever contain the Achilles heel, of failing to see that importance. (We love him regardless)

And so the blog goes on, and Sherlock finds himself captivated. At seeing the case through someone else’s eyes, and John’s style of writing, little personal notes, but the love he radiates, the awe for his father is obvious to Sherlock. He scrolls down through the comments;

OMG! Another one solved! Update soon! XOXO

Damn, your dad is the bravest #sojealous

Heart your style of writing! Will you check my blog? The link is *********

I wanna see a dead body :(

Totally recommending this to my friends

A great read before bed

And so on. Sherlock goes through them, and he can’t find a single one saying anything remotely negative about the writing. There are some negative things about Sherlock, but nothing about John. He clicks on the comments box, and thinks for a moment, before typing Clever title, son. SH

Almost an instant after hitting the return button, his computer pings

OMG! Are you Sherlock Holmes for rl? No way!

Sherlock swallows I am Sherlock Holmes.

Another ping, someone different this time. Rocker27. Don’t buy it. Prove it.

How do I prove it?

Video message!

Record urself.

Sherlock sighs, but does so, it’s only 10 seconds long, him, sitting at his laptop, bored “It’s me, you twits,”

Oh my god!

This is so great!

Where’s John?!

Let’s have you together!

Sherlock’s just about to type that he can’t do that, but then John is right beside him, smiling, in his blue pyjamas. “I looked at the comments,” he whispers, smiling, and he hugs Sherlock tightly “I love you, dad,”

And so they record themselves.

“Hi, it’s the Holmes Detectives themselves,” Sherlock says into the camera with a grin, and John waves happily

“So uh, today is the first day my dad read my blog, what did you think?”

“Oh, it was fantastic.” Sherlock nodded “I mean…you could make me look a little better, but it’s good. I also see you cut out all the embarrassing things about yourself.”

“Like what?” John snorts

“Like the time you thought a giant wolf was chasing you around a science lab?”

“Dad, I swear to god that wasn’t funny-“

“It was pretty hilarious.”

And so on, for about three minutes.

By the morning, it’s an internet sensation.

…

…

…

“Yes, yes, you’re practically celebrities,” Mycroft drawls, sitting on his desk, looking down at Sherlock and John, who are giggling on the sofa like naughty school children that have been summoned to the head masters office. “You do realise that this has attracted unwanted attention, for both of you. It’s dangerous.”

“Are you upset you weren’t in the video?” Sherlock asks through bouts of laughter “We can put you in it next time-“

“Sherlock-“ Mycroft warns, massaging his temples

“Youtube is paying us now,” John pipes up “We hit the million mark. A pound for every view.”

Sherlock nudges him proudly.

Mycroft sighs. “Fine, fine, since you both insist on being children about this, I suppose I will deal with it. Now get out, both of you,” He points to the door, and Sherlock strides towards it. John smiles, hugging Mycroft tightly

“Sorry, Uncle Mycroft,” the 17 year old grins, and Mycroft softens, patting his back

“Keep your father safe,” he says softly, and John nods, grinning, hitching his school bag further up his shoulder “And you stay safe too, John.”

“Love you, Uncle Mycroft,” John chimes, heading for the door, but just before leaves, he pokes his head back in, a lop-sided, cheeky grin “Did you watch the video, Uncle Mycroft?” Mycroft nods “Did you laugh?” Mycroft shakes his head, but John uses his powers of deduction liar. He beams happily, before rushing after his father.

Mycroft hums into the empty room, and lets out a small chuckle.

Just to get it out of his system.

Chapter Text

“I had to put off an invasion in Brazil for this, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, shuffling along the seats to sit beside him brother and their parents.

“You didn’t have to come.”

“Please,” Mycroft rolled his eyes, getting comfortable “You saw the way he asked me. I couldn’t have said no.”

“You’ve said no to the Prime Minister, the Premier of Russia, the President of the United States, but a seven year old asks you to come to his play and you crumble,” Sherlock smirked, crossing his arms smugly. Mycroft turned to him

“I thought you were in the middle of a case. A case you rated 7 out of 10, that means…no interruptions, doesn’t it? And yet here you are.” Sherlock glared at his older brother, and it was Mycroft’s turn to smirk “Looks like you couldn’t say no either. You crumbled.”

“I…I just-“

“Excuse me?” A voice called from behind them, and the two brothers shifted around to see a woman, with dark brown hair, smiling brightly “Sorry, are you with John Holmes?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered for them “I’m his father, and this is his Uncle.”

“Oh, well it’s great to meet you,” she smiled “Our boys are best friends,”

Mycroft blinked “Are they? And what is your son’s name?”

“Jake?”

Sherlock nodded at Mycroft’s suspicious look, and he forced a smile “John talks about him all the time. Apparently they want to be in the same colour group next year, whatever that means.”

“I’m Janine,” she brushed her hair behind her ear “I was wondering- the boys always want to get together, but John seems…hesitant, to invite anyone back to his house, I’m sure you’re very busy, but…you know, Jake’s birthday is coming around soon, and we don’t have the money for a party, so I want just gonna let him invite a friend over, and I wondered if you’d be okay with little Johnny coming around?”

“Uh…” Sherlock blinked “If John’s okay with it.” And he turned around promptly, Mycroft arched an eyebrow questioning and Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck “John’s had friends over to the flat before.” He murmured, and Mycroft smiled

“Once, two years ago. And you made him cry by setting eyeballs on fire. Scarred that child for life.”

“Both of you, hush,” Violet scalded “The play’s starting.”

Sherlock watched the remake of Little Red Riding Hood critically, appraising everyone in it. Mulberry Academy was a good school, an all-rounder type of place, but he couldn’t help and sneer when the girl playing little red riding whenever she skipped around the stage. Jake was playing the wolf, and from the little sighs by the audience, he was apparently adorable. So that was John’s best friend, huh? He seemed sweet enough, but then, 7 year olds didn’t really have ulterior motives.

And then John came onto the stage. Sherlock found himself sitting up in his seat, taking more notice, as was Mycroft, Violet and Henry. John was the wood-cutter, with a little fake axe, and a cute hat, and Sherlock found himself brimming with pride when all the women in the audience let out little coos of adoration.

“Get away from her, you wicked wolf!” John cried, and he swung his axe, and Jake fell to the ground, a good dramatic moment ruined only by the secret smile John and Jake shared. Sherlock found himself grateful that his mother was taking pictures, because that was John, his John playing the hero, leading Red Riding Hood and the Grandma out of the house. “You need to be more careful, Red Riding Hood, your mummy’s going to be worried about you!”

“I’m sorry, Mr Hunter!” The girl chimed “Thank you for saving me! And then they hugged, and the curtain was falling and Sherlock found himself applauding along with the rest of the audience.

“Did you notice,” Mycroft said afterwards, as they waited for John in the main reception “That John was the only child to never forget his lines?” Sherlock nodded “That’s a good sign.” He hummed thoughtfully “You know, they got to choose the roles they’d play, why do you think John chose the Huntsman? The hero of the story?”

“Daddy!” John called, racing through the corridor, and leaping into his father’s arms. Still soft, and light at seven years old, he hugged his father tightly, not old enough to be embarrassed by things like that. “Did you like it?”

“Oh, you were brilliant,” Sherlock murmured, hugging his son “Brought Uncle Mycroft to tears,”

John giggled happily, turning to Uncle Mycroft, arms out, and Mycroft engulfed him in a tight hug “Very good, John.”

“Thank you!” He locked his arms around Mycroft’s neck, making it clear he was going to be staying seated on Mycroft’s hip. “Did you like Jake? Jake was the wolf. He’s my best friend,” he snuggled further into Mycroft as they headed outside, shivering at the cold. Violet and Henry had already pulled the car up, and they slid inside.

“He can sit on my lap,” Sherlock murmured, reaching across, but John shook his head

“I wanna sit on Uncle Mycroft’s lap, please,”

Sherlock’s jaw locked, but he nodded, and Mycroft tried to hide his smile. Sherlock tried to ignore them for the rest of the car ride, John kept whispering things into Mycroft’s ear, and Mycroft kept playing that game with John, where he would draw a letter on his back with his finger, and John would guess what it was. By the time they got home, John was asleep, and Sherlock collecting was him into his arms. “He’s my son, Mycroft.” He snapped, but Mycroft just smiled patiently

“He was asking me if you liked Jake,” Mycroft chuckled “Said that you had to like all of his friends.”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh.”

“I told him that you did, and that you’d be more than happy to let him go to the sleepover.” He nodded “Good night, little brother.”

…

…

…

“I’m here to pick up John,” Sherlock drawled, pulling off his gloves and stuffing them into his coat pocket, Janine smiled

“Yeah, yeah, he’s just upstairs. They had a great time. John’s so well behaved,” she beamed, and Sherlock nodded at her, before heading upstairs. He found Jake’s room in no time, the one with the giant Iron Man Poster on the door, and paused before going in, looking through the crack. John and Jake were playing Operation on the floor. Jake was a sweet looking kid with his mother’s dark hair, and brown eyes.

“How are you so good at this game?” Jake groaned, as his own beeped

John laughed “Me and my dad play it all the time. He’s the best at it.” He looked around “Do you have Hungry Hungry Hippos?”

“No, what’s that?”

“A game,” Join frowned “Do you have Jenga?” Another shake of the head “Chess?” Another shake “Butterfly catch?”

“I don’t have many toys,” Jake said quietly, and suddenly John was hugging him

“I have lots at home. Me and my daddy always play. I can bring you some?”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” John nodded, smiling “And then we can pl-“

“John,” Sherlock pushed open the door, and John beamed up at him “Time to go now,”

“Oh,” Jake looked disappointed “Do you have to go now?”

“Yes he does, sorry,” Sherlock sighed “But…” god it was touching to see someone like John so much “He’ll come back next week, how does that sound?” When they got home, Sherlock watched as John collected up some of the games they didn’t play as much anymore. He kept Operation, Chess and Jenga, but took the butterfly catcher, a pack of cards, monopoly and ludo, putting them into a bag. “You know, once you give them to him, you can’t play with them anymore.”

John looked up, head cocked to the side “So? At least he’ll be happy.” And he threw a couple of dice in the bag.

Sherlock smiled, shaking his head fondly “You’re such a good boy,”

…

…

…

10 YEARS LATER

Sherlock knew he shouldn’t be watching, but he couldn’t look away. Standing in the doorway of Jake’s room, about to call John for a case Mycroft had waiting for them in France.

“You know, John, sometimes I just…” Jake went to sit down on his bed, sighing. Jake had grown tall and lithe, with shaggy brown hair and kind eyes “I just feel completely trapped.”

John pulled himself up onto the bed, wrapping his arm around Jake “I know things have been tough for you lately,” he murmured “Your dad coming back like that was…unexpected but Jake, you’ve handled way worse than this. You’re my best mate in the whole world, and you can get through this one.”

Jake’s breath caught in his throat, a little hitching sound that Sherlock registered, but John didn’t. Oh. Sherlock thought, eyes going wide Oh, Jake was- He watched in a fascinated horror as Jake leaned forward, head tilted, lips barely brushing John’s before John jerked back “Woah! Jake, what the h-“

“I’m gay, John,” Jake laughed, leaning forward, one hand curling around the back of John’s neck “Only you could miss that.” And he tipped his head forward again

“Jake! I’m not- I’m not gay!”

Jake pulled back “But…” he swallowed thickly, eyes glimmering with hurt “I thought…it’s just…” he let out a choke “I’ve liked you for so long, and you’re always…hugging me and-“

“Jake,” John softened inexplicably, hugging his friend “You’re my best friend. But I’m not gay. Though you wouldn’t be the first to think it. Maybe it’s my face?” Sherlock nodded approvingly, John was trying to make Jake laugh, to soften the blow of rejection, and it was working.

“Sorry, John, I…” Jake pulled back with a wry smile “I got it wrong. Still best friends?”

“Hey, of course we are,” John nodded “I think I’ve gotta meet my dad now, case in Paris or something. Meet you back here Wednesday?”

“Yeah, ‘course mate. Catch you later.”

Sherlock ducked to the side of the door, watching John skip downstairs where Mycroft’s car would be waiting, but he risked a look into Jake’s bedroom, to see Jake picking up the coat John had left, and hugging it to his chest.

“I love you,” he whispered to the empty room, and Sherlock looked away, feeling as though he’d intruded on something very private, and he rushed after John, sliding into the car beside him. John shot him a look, before sighing

“You were spying on all of that, weren’t you?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together “That boy would do anything for you.”

“Yup.” John nodded “Yup, he’d…he’d lay right down in traffic for me. It’s…very flattering.”

“But…you’re not gay?”

“No, dad,” he sighed “Pretty sure I’d know if I was.”

“Right.” He whistled as they drove to the airport “It’s good, though, to have someone like that. Someone who would do anything for you, drop anything for you at the drop of a hat if you just…bat your eyelashes at them.”

“I’m not doing to Jake what you do to Molly, dad,” John sighed “It’s manipulative-“

“Useful-“

“Manipulative-“

“Same thing.”

“Dad…” he shook his head “Jake’s my best mate.”

“I’m just saying,” Sherlock tried “It’s good to have someone in reserves like that. He’s in love with you.”

…

…

…

“Mr Holmes?” Jake headed into 221B Baker Street, waving at Sherlock “Is John around?”

Sherlock held the tissue to his nose, head tilting back for his nose bleed “Over there.” He pointed to the sofa “He’s got a concussion, hit in the head with a dead pig.”

“Right,” Jake headed over to John, who smiled weakly “I’ll make you guys some tea, did you solve your case?” He stepped over a dead rat that was lying in a special glass box on the kitchen floor, without batting an eye.

“It was the Chef,” John yawned “It’s always the Chef.”

“It’s never the Chef,” Sherlock grumbled, watching Jake turn on the kettle and fetch some cups from the cupboard. If he noticed the decapitated head, he said nothing.

“What are you gonna call this one, Johnny?”

“A dish best served cold.”

“Clever.”

“No it’s not,” Sherlock grumbled, wincing in pain as John threw a pillow at him “Why not- Poison in the Pie?”

“Because that’s not clever, or funny, or a pun, and it gives the entire case away!” John rolled his eyes, and Jake laughed. Sherlock rolled his eyes

“After the tea will you take John to bed, Jake? I’ve gotta see my brother. Make sure he doesn’t pass out.”

“Sure thing, Mr H,”

Sherlock smirked at his son, and John glared back at him.

But in all honesty, it was nice, to have someone love you. John drank his perfectly made tea, and he and Jake laughed about rugby matches, and then John went to bed, being woken up every couple of hours, as Jake shone a torch in his eyes and offered him water. “Jake,” John managed “You don’t have to do this, you know what my dad’s like, taking advantage of you- not good.” He slurred, and nuzzled further into the pillow. Jake smiled, brushing a hand over John’s forehead

“I don’t mind, John. I’d stop coming if I minded.” He let out an exhale “I like knowing you need me. Even if it’s not in the way that I want.”

John didn’t open his eyes, merely yawned “Who knows, Jake? Maybe one day I’ll find I’m bi or something. I’d totally get with you then,” Jake doesn’t say anything, but his entire body rises with the thought.

A few months later, John gets together with Mary, but Jake doesn’t give up hope.

And it’s a good thing he doesn’t.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock.” Mycroft called, and the consulting detective looked up, frowning at his brother’s sombre tone, taking in his stiffened stance. He walked towards his older brothers desk, waiting. “I fixed a drone on John, like you requested and…and I was…this was happening a couple of hours ago,” he turned his screen, before moving his hand to cover his mouth, staring at nothing.

Sherlock braced himself, before clicking play.

John was in a dingy, large abandoned room with a couple of other kids. None of them that Sherlock recognised, and John was high. High as a fucking kite. Lounging on some mould infested sofa, bringing the marijuana to his lips, taking in a deep roll, eyes already tinged red. Sherlock couldn’t breathe, watching with wide eyes. Not John, not his John.

“Dude,” a guy approached John, with a syringe “Want some extra buzz?”

John plucked the syringe from him, examining the liquid through hazy eyes “What is it?” He slurred

“Just something to give you a buzz-“

“No.” John managed, bringing the roll to his lips, “Knock yourself out though.” And the video stopped.

“Oh my god…” Sherlock whispered, and Mycroft rose, looking angry.

“Maybe now you see.”

Sherlock looked up at his brother “What?”

“Maybe now you know how it feels, to watch someone you love and care about kill themselves like this. To ruin everything they are and to throw away their potential.” His voice was hard as steel, but the blues of his eyes quivered with held back emotion, and Sherlock stared in shock.

“I never…not like that…I didn’t-“

“You were worse than that, Sherlock!” Mycroft roared, knocking the laptop away and it fell to the ground with a satisfying thud, but didn’t break apart. “You were worse, god you were so much worse!” He was spitting as he seethed, bracing both hands down against his desk “You would have said yes to whatever was in that syringe, you were…you were…” he closed his eyes, taking in a deep, measured breath. When he opened them, he was the cool, calculated Mycroft again. “You need to talk to him, Sherlock.” He murmured, picking up his umbrella and heading for the door “Soon.”

Sherlock sat there, struck.

…

…

…

"Sherlock," Mycroft whispered, shaking his shoulders, tears streaming down his face "Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? It's your brother Mycroft, you're in my house, in London, do you remember how you got here?"

His little brother whined pitifully, eyes rimmed dry and red, lips parched "Mycroft," he whispered "Need- need-"

"You don't need." Mycroft whispered, cradling Sherlock's head in his lap as his little brother thrashed, he stroked his fingers through dark, tousled curls "You're suffering withdrawal. It's gonna hurt, okay? Just shh, it's gonna be okay."

"Hurts, Mycroft," Sherlock cried, pawing at Mycroft's near with blunt, stubby fingers "Hurts."

"I know, I know, shh," a kiss on his forehead, soothing fingers, Mycroft smelt of home. He smelt safe. This was why he had come here. To know that the only person not to reject him when he was like this was Mycroft. His dear, dear brother. "You need to stop this, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice was quiet and calm "I will not ever find you dead in a ditch somewhere, frail and choking on your own vomit. I will not allow it, you understand? This will not happen again."

"No rehab." Sherlock managed to slur out, but Mycroft ignored him if he heard.

"I'm going to start tracking you, now. You can't be trusted."

Sherlock whined again, thrashing a little, but Mycroft was there to hold him down

"It's okay, it's okay, sleep."

Mycroft sat up in a cold sweat, the memory taunting all of his senses, and he looked around his bedroom, before collapsing back down into the sheets, rubbing his eyes, groaning.

"John?!" Mycroft cried, running across the tower to where the tiny body was lying "John! John!" He pulled the body into his lap "John-" he pulls open one of the eyelids "What did you take? What did you take?"

"Smthng. Tblet." Comes the slur, and Mycroft is forcing John's mouth open, and ramming his fingers into the back of his throat. It's satisfying when John throws up, trying to get rid of whatever the hell he'd taken. And then suddenly Sherlock is there as well, but he's the same age as John, and Mycroft's trying to cradle them both, but they both keep thrashing, and he can't see past his tears to make sure they're both alright and-

Mycroft gasps for breath, and tears out of his bed as though that's the cause of the bad dreams. He gets himself some water, and sits at his desk, content to work till morning light.

...

...

...

Sherlock waited two days.

And then grabbed John by the scruff off his neck as he headed into that drug house, hissing into his ear “What were you gonna do in there, John?”

John paled, struggling in his father’s grip as he was forced into a car “Dad-“ he pleaded, only 15 years old, “I…It’s not-“

“I’ve been following you, John. No sense lying now.” His voice was stern, and hard as ice, and John quivered under it

“I…I haven’t been going long. O-only a couple times a month for the past three months, I’m not- I’m…dad-“

“John, don’t talk.” Sherlock snapped, as John’s eyes brimmed with tears. “You…I’m a good father to you, am I not?” John nodded eagerly “I entrust you with responsibility, defend you whenever I can, attend all your functions. I take you with me on cases, I’m lenient with whatever you want to do, but this, John? This is how you’re choosing to spend your life-“

“The deductions, dad!” John pleaded “When…when I’m…” he didn’t want to use the word high, but it went said anyway “I can see everything, like you! Not just…not just their stupid emotions, everything, I can see everything-“

“I don’t care!” Sherlock bellowed, and Mycroft’s hired driver jumped in his seat, as John leaned back against the seat as though he had been struck, eyes wide and fixed on his father “I don’t care! There is not one excuse John- not one that I have not heard before! I am sick! Sick and disgusted, and you made me feel that way! You have taken the trust I gave to you as a father to a son and you have broken it! And you can never earn it back! I look at you now, and I can barely contain myself.” He lowered his voice then, a dangerous whisper “I meant what I said, John. Don’t talk. At least not to me. I want nothing to do with you.” And he pulled out his phone, scanning through cases for Lestrade.

John stared at his father, blinking back tears that threatened to spill over, and he glared down at his hands.

When they got to Mycroft’s office, Sherlock stayed sat in the car, and John slipped out, stuffing his hands into his pockets, and heading inside.

Mycroft let out a sigh when John stepped inside.

“Uncle-“

“Sit down, John.”

“I’m sorry,” John whispered brokenly “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll never do it again, I swear!” And before he could help himself a tear ran down his cheek “I didn’t realise it was…I’m sorry, I won’t, I won’t again, I promise!” And his words screamed sincerity. Mycroft deleted the speech he’d been about to give, and instead stood up, and embraced his nephew tightly.

“I don’t want to ever have need to spy on you again, John,” he said softly, and John nodded wetly against his chest

“You won’t, I promise you won’t-“

“I know, I know, shhh,”

When John slid back into the car, his father was still looking at his phone, and the ride home was silent. As they got up into the flat, John swallowed thickly “Dad I…I really am sorry,”

Sherlock didn’t look up.

“I…I was stupid, so stupid, and I won’t do that. Not ever again.” Silence. “Dad?” John bit his bottom lip, but Sherlock didn’t even blink. “G-goodnight,” he murmured, before turning and trudging upstairs.

John woke up early, and by the time Sherlock came into the kitchen, John was there, smiling hopefully, already dressed in his uniform, bag packed to go to school. “I made you breakfast?” John offered, gesturing to the tea, toast, porridge and bacon.

“Not hungry.”

“Oh.” John looked down at the food, before trying again “I cleaned your test tubes, got more gas for the Bunsen burner.”

“I wasn’t aware we needed more.”

John flinched like he’d been stung. “Right, I uh…I’ll…go to school now. You wanna…walk with me?”

“Busy.”

“Oh.” He rubbed the back of his neck “A case? What about?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

And that was how it went for the next week. John would get up early, and make a breakfast no one would eat. Tried to get his dad to talk to him again, but Sherlock remained stubborn. And then another week passed, and Mycroft started getting angry. John hadn’t come to visit, not even a phone call or an email, nothing new updated on the blog (that yes, even Mycroft admittedly read on occasion).

Then he got a phone call.

“Mr Holmes?” came a professional voice

“Speaking.”

“It’s about John.”

“I think you have the wrong Holmes,”

“Mycroft Holmes? His uncle? His father isn’t answering, you’re the next of kin.”

“Alright, what’s wrong?” He frowned, wondering why Sherlock hadn’t picked up.

“I’m worried…about John.” Mycroft realised in that moment that this wasn’t the secretary calling, this was a teacher. A female teacher who liked John- presumably his English teacher. “These past weeks he’s been…distant. I mean, he’s doing all his work, getting his homework in on time, still going to sports club but he…he isn’t talking to his friends. I saw him eating lunch alone, and I know that teenagers do often go through these fazes, even one as sweet as John, but then today…I saw them, Mr Holmes. On his wrist.”

Mycroft managed to keep his voice even “Saw what?”

“The cuts, Mr Holmes. I didn’t want to think they were self-inflicted, I know he and his father do encounter danger sometimes, but…I found the blade in his coat pocket, Mr Holmes.”

“Does he know you called me?”

“No, I didn’t want to draw any attention.”

“Thank you, Mrs…”

“Hills.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hills. It’s wonderful to know that John has a teacher who cares about him as much as you do. I’ll pick him up from school today, get everything sorted out. And I’ll be writing to the head master, about what an asset you are to the school.”

…

…

…

“John.”

John skidded to a stop, back pack thumping against his bag as he took in the large, sleek black car. “Uncle Mycroft,” he frowned “What’s wrong? Is everyone okay?”

“Everyone’s fine.” Mycroft managed “Get in the car, John.” And they both got inside, sitting opposite each other. “Now,” it was perfectly silent inside, and John shifted uncomfortably “Show me your arms.”

John froze. He couldn’t. There was no way Mycroft could know about that, he’d been so careful. Watching out for cameras and drones- “Why?” he managed

Mycroft sighed “John.”

John ground his teeth, but obediently shrugged off his blazer, and tugged up the sleeves of his white shirt. He winced at Mycroft’s intake of breath. “I’m not suicidal!” He promised “It’s…it’s the other way if you’re going to do that, I just…” he looked down at the neat, angry red cuts “I just deserve this.” His voice was suddenly foul, full of loathing and self-hatred and disgust “For doing what I did, I…I need to be punished and-“

“John.” Mycroft refused to cry “You repent. You won’t and haven’t done it since, there’s no need for this,” he took John’s hands in his own, smoothing over the cuts.

“There won’t scar,” John offered “I don’t cut them deep enough for that, just…just enough to hurt-“

“Why?” Mycroft whispered, pain alight on his face and John swallowed thickly

“Dad’s…he’s not talking to me, Uncle! He hasn’t spoken to me since he caught me…and I can’t live like that!” His voice was suddenly anguished “I-I tried to fix it, but he just ignores me, and so…I thought maybe I should come up with my own punishment and…and you know the blade he used for shaving- well, he’s got this spare, so I just took it. I’m not stupid-“ he hurried “I…I drenched it in some alcohol first, burnt it a little, but I-“

“Give it to me.”

John wordlessly rifled through his bag, and handed over the blade, Mycroft tucked it into his pocket, and removed a salve from the other one. Rubbing soothingly with his thumbs, grip still firm on John’s hands. “I’m sorry, Uncle Mycroft,” John tried again

“Don’t be,” Mycroft murmured “Just don’t do this again. No more punishment for this, I decree it.”

John half smiled.

…

…

…

“Mycroft,” Sherlock groaned, hauling himself free out of the grip of two goons “If you wanted to see me you could have called, not just hired some goons to snatch me.” He brushed down his sleeves, and sighed at Mycroft’s face. “Oh god, who died?”

“You think this is funny, Sherlock?” Mycroft stood, and Sherlock was forced to sit in the seat, so Mycroft towered over him like a head master. The two goons left them alone. “You haven’t so much as uttered a word to John for two weeks?”

Sherlock looked uncomfortable “He was doing drugs, Mycro-“

“You did drugs! Did you ever think to tell him that as you abused him?”

“I would never abuse him!” Sherlock cried, outraged “You can’t tell me how to punish my son! I love him-“

“When you’re punishing them, you take away their toys, or their privileges, but…you don’t take away your love.” Sherlock’s shoulders slumped. “Now, look at this.” And he removed the blade from his pocket, setting it delicately on the table.

Sherlock looked at it. “My spare shaving blade.” He murmured “What are you doing with it?”

Mycroft crossed his arms, leaning back. “Deduce it.”

So Sherlock did. He’d been called here by goons- so an emergency. And the first thing Mycroft had talked about was John. And he knew he hadn’t been speaking to him. Spy? No, wouldn’t have been so angry, John must have told him. When? Today, after school going by the time. But the blade? Where would Mycroft had got the blade, he hadn’t been to 221 Baker Street, and only John knew where he kept them- so John must have taken it. Given it to Mycroft, but why? Why would John have his blade?

“No.”

Mycroft rubbed his face with his hands, letting out a shuddery breath “Yes.”

“No!” Sherlock rose, voice reaching hysterics “No! He wouldn’t do that-“

“No?” Mycroft went back around his desk, sitting down “Go home, Sherlock.”

Sherlock screamed the entire way for the driver to go faster, and when he got to the flat, he raced upstairs, first checking the living room, then the kitchen- where he was hauled to a stop. The breakfast, the breakfast that John had been making for him every day for the past two weeks, stone cold on the counter. Sherlock felt sick rising up his throat as he raced upstairs, bursting into John’s room, only to come to another halt.

John was asleep, on his bed, on the top of the blankets, still in his uniform, snoring softly.

Sherlock swallowed, creeping forward, and rolled up his sleeves. Mycroft had been right. And god, Sherlock would never have known! If Mycroft hadn’t called him, Sherlock would have- he’d done this to his son! He’s cut him and hurt him- he let out a dry sob, collecting John into his arms, and letting his tears splash in fat droplets onto his son’s neck.

“Dad?” John whispered, pulling back “Dad are you ok-“

“My baby boy,” Sherlock hissed, holding him tighter “My beautiful boy, I’m so sorry,”

“No, dad,” John whispered, hugging his father back “It was my fault. I deserved th-“

“No! You have never, will never deserve this!” He grabbed hold of John’s elbow, kissing the marks.

In the morning, John padded downstairs, to see his dad waiting for him at the kitchen table on the Saturday morning. John was now in his pyjamas, and sat down, grinning as the bacon and egg was loaded onto his plate. “Smells good,” he murmured, picking up his fork, as his father sat opposite him, and tucked in. Silence for a few moments, enjoying the good, warm food.

“So, uh, John, what I may have neglected to tell you was that…for a couple of years, I was a…a heavy, substance abuser.”

John choked on an egg, looking up in shock.

“Yeah,” Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck “Couple of times where we thought I might die, heavy addict, would do anything for a fix. Actually homeless for a bit, I’d end up on Mycroft’s doorstep and then a heart attack. Drove him crazy,” his voice went sad “I never even thought about what it was doing to him. But then…you don’t think quite right when you’re high.”

“That’s why…” John trailed off in horror. That’s why Mycroft had looked at him like that. Like he was having a flashback and being stabbed at the same time.

“Yeah,” Sherlock murmured “We haven’t been too good to him. But on to that later, how I responded…that was bad, John. I shouldn’t have done that, and you…” he looked incredibly pained “With my blade, I’m never going to be able to use it again.”

“I’m glad,” John snapped “Do you know how dangerous those things are?”

Sherlock let out a short laugh, before becoming serious “I never want you to do that again, John.”

“You were ignoring me, dad, nothing I was doing got through to you! What was I meant to do?”

Sherlock flinched “I…we need a safe word.”

“Okay, how about Mycroft?”

Sherlock nodded approvingly.

…

…

…

“Please,” Mycroft huffed, “The two of you are treating me as though I’m an invalid.”

“We’re trying to say sorry, Uncle,” John frowned, offering Mycroft another biscuit “We’re sorry.”

Mycroft let out a small smile, carding his fingers through John’s hair “Oh I know you are,”

“Yes, yes, we’re very sorry,” Sherlock grumbled, refilling Mycroft’s cup of tea.

Mycroft smiled, examining the healing wounds on John’s arm “Eventually,” he chuckled “I’ll consider forgiving you.”

Sherlock flicked him in the back of the head

“Dad!”

Chapter Text

 It didn’t last very long.

After a year or so, Moriarty realised that John Hamish Adler Holmes was not in fact dead. And so watched. Watched that boy like he had watched him since he was four years old. Let it be said that Jim Moriarty was most definitely not asexual. Of course, he found Sherlock appealing in every sense of the word, the man was confident and assured, and clever, but his son…now, that was the best of both worlds. He had Jim’s mouth salivating, this mix of Sherlock and a brilliant woman (if John was actually Sherlock’s son. He was still unsure in the matter) If he was though…

John had his father’s smarts, his mother’s loyalty. Moriarty accepted that he accepted his good looks from both of them. But where the blond hair had come from? Moriarty didn’t know. John Holmes, at 17 years old, had Jim’s blood running hot through cold veins. Now, as Moriarty watched through a series of cameras, John was walking down the street with an unimportant boy.

His blond hair ruffled and scruffy by the wind, tall, and strong, smiling brilliantly. God. Moriarty would do illegal things to him. He was wearing worn blue jeans, and a light thin jumper, with a black coat and scarf. Moriarty licked his lips when John licked his against the chaffing wind. “What do you think of him, Daphne?” Moriarty asked, turning to the screens to show his head of security. A ruthless woman, who was also being blackmailed. It was after all, the only way to ensure loyalty. It also helped if they feared you. “Handsome, right?”

“Very, Sir,” she answered automatically, but then she actually took John in from the screens “How old is he, Sir?”

“17,” he grinned “That’s the best part.”

“Why don’t you go undercover, Sir?” She asked, “You’re only 37, and you look young. You’re handsome, you could court him under a pretence, get it to be consensual-“

“Now Daphne,” Jim grinned, all teeth “Where would the fun in that be?”

…

…

…

“You’re a clever man, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock didn’t turn around, violin in his grasp, he drew out a long note, eyes fixed on the street. “Hello Jim, sit down, I was just about to have some tea.” He turned then, relaxed, and he was. Glad that John was out of the flat. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe that it had been the end of Moriarty, and so set his violin down, and poured them both some tea, before sitting opposite the well-dressed man. At 40 years old, Sherlock hadn’t appeared to have aged. He still looks 15 years younger than he was, with tousled brown locks, angular face, and vivid blue eyes.

“But your son, Sherlock. He’s…” Moriarty whistled “He’s a bright one. Maybe even brighter than you.”

Sherlock sipped his tea “He’s going to make a very fine man.”

“Attractive, isn’t he?” Moriarty’s voice was blunt, cutting and harsh.

Sherlock resisted the urge to shoot Moriarty in the face, instead tilted his head curiously “You know who his parents are, did you honestly expect anything different?”

Moriarty looked positively gleeful “Well, that’s the thing, Sherlock,” he set down his tea, and leaned forward, grinning “About Irene,” his voice was soft, sensual now “When you were so obsessed with her, I of course, had to learn more about her too. So I was there, the night you saved her life. I was one of the guards, so were you,” he looked delighted at the look on Sherlock’s face “I know you made love to her, and then after you left, I drugged her while she slept.” He clasped his hands “I fucked her, Sherlock.” His accent deepened deliciously “And she never even knew. So…” he grinned “There’s a good chance that-“

“John is not your son.”

“Oh? How do you know that?” He smoothed down his slick grey suit “You’ve never had DNA tests done, and…his intellect could come from either one of us. You’ve got to admit, Sherlock. You and I, we’re not so different.”

“Why would it matter?” Sherlock snapped harshly “Why would it matter if you were his father? I am his dad, and he loves me.”

Jim’s eyes went black with desire “It matters, dear Sherlock, because the things I will do to him…” he chuckled “Oh goodness, people would frown upon them, but…if he was my son people would think that was much, much worse. Don’t you think?”

Sherlock clenched his hands against the armchair, voice molten lava “You will never touch him.”

“Yes I will,” he chimed musically, winking “Maybe you should lock your windows tonight, Sherlock. You’re making this too easy,” and he tossed something at the consulting detective, who caught it as a reflex. He examined the object, voice going dry. It was John’s school tie.

…

…

…

“He was bluffing, Sherlock.” Mycroft murmured, examining the tie in his hands “This is just the school tie, he bought it from a shop, you need to pull yourself together.”

“Um, I think he should be freaking out! We should all be freaking out, because some psychopath is trying to kill me!” John cried, pacing opposite his father across Mycroft’s office, making the oldest dizzy.

“What do we do, Mycroft?” Sherlock snaps, raking his hands through his hair and Mycroft sighed.

“So what we now add to the charges is the fact that Moriarty is a paedophile.” Sherlock made a pained sound at the word, and John glared daggers at the floor “Don’t worry. We’ve got security protection on the both of you-“

“Oh, like you had last time?” Sherlock snapped, remembering that impossible decision, like when he thought John had killed himself. “Mycroft, he…” he sighed “John, will you go downstairs and get me some water?”

“You’re gonna talk about me behind my back.” John whined, but obediently turned on his heel, they listened to his steps, and Mycroft crossed his arms, waiting for what Sherlock had to say.

“We need to do a DNA test on John.”

Mycroft stared “Whatever for?”

“Moriarty raped Irene the night we…” Sherlock nodded at the sick, pale look on Mycroft’s face “Yeah,” he whispered “So there’s a good chance that John’s…” His entire body burned for it not to be true. “I mean…it won’t matter, if…if he’s not mine but-“ but it would burn his soul. For he had loved and cherished the child of his enemy. “Maybe Moriarty will be more sparing,”

“So…he knows that John could be his and he still…” Mycroft wanted to swallow his own tongue “We need a sample of DN-“ he was cut off my Sherlock handing him two bags, one his, one John’s, with a swab in either of them, shrugging. Mycroft nodded.

Unfortunately, before their conversation could continue, an arrow sailed into the room, piercing the wall, and releasing a gas, that had both Sherlock and Mycroft falling to the floor with a thud. When John came back, he took in the sight with wide eyes, rushing towards them, only to be caught by a strong body, and feel the sting of a syringe against his neck.

…

…

…

It was a familiar situation, and yet it was different.

Sherlock woke up stiff, uneasy, blinking to awareness. Realising he was strapped to chair, much like last time, except there was no Mycroft here. Thank god for the little things. Opposite him, John was completely unconscious. The back of the chair rose high enough that though he tilted his head back, he must be comfortable. He too, was restrained.

“How do I look?” Moriarty asked, appearing in Sherlock’s line of sight, and he truly did look remarkable. Having ditched his classic suit and tie look, he was dressed in a figure hugging white v-neck shirt and black jeans.

“You look like Jim from IT.” He spat, and Jim beamed

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he bragged “But I do look good.” He pulled up a plastic chair, and sat so the back of the chair pressed against his toned chest, leaning over to look at John, he sighed happily. “Did you get the DNA results back?”

“I was busy being gassed.” Sherlock responded dryly, subtly testing out the strength of the rope, because Moriarty was getting closer and closer to his John. His sweet, vulnerable, unconscious John.

“Touché.” Moriarty leaned a hand forward, brushing his knuckles gently down John’s jaw, enraptured with him. “You really did out do yourself with him.” He murmured, and Sherlock tested the bonds again. “I mean…wow.”

“Stop it.”

“Does it bother you?” Moriarty beamed, pressing a firm hand onto John’s knee, and deliberately sliding it ever so slightly upwards, and grinning like a madman. “He’s legal, isn’t he? Nothing wrong with what I’m going to do.”

“Assault springs to mind.”

“Please-“ Moriarty cut himself off, because John was stirring, a small whine in his throat as he came too, blinking rapidly. He swallowed thickly, meeting his father’s eyes

“Dad,” he whispered “Are you okay-“

“Oh he’s fine, aren’t you, dad?” Moriarty grinned, he squeezed John’s thigh, and Sherlock had to watch his blond boy realise exactly what it was Jim wanted from him. He swallowed thickly, turning to his father desperately, only to realise that Sherlock didn’t have a way out of this one. “So, Johnny, what would you do to keep your father safe?” He inched his hand up a little more.

John didn’t meet his father’s eyes, and answered honestly “Anything.”

“I thought so,” he beamed, shoving his chair forward so he was less than a fraction of a centimetre away from him. “How about a kiss, hm?” He asked, eyes dropping to John’s pink lips “Or I’ll shoot dad in both knees.”

John cleared his throat, testing his restraints “A kiss?” He manages, and Moriarty nodded, leaning in to whisper in his ear too low for Sherlock to hear

“And make it good, otherwise daddy here won’t ever be able to walk again.”

John nodded fiercely, and then Moriarty’s lips were against his own. God, John wanted it to be revolting and sickening, but it was a kiss. It was a set of warm, firm lips against his own, and he was still a teenage boy. Though, he was grateful that Moriarty blocked his fathers view of him, because when Moriarty’s parted his lips, and his tongue was suddenly doing things, John couldn’t help the pathetic whimper that escaped him, as he gave as much as he could. To save his father.

He grazed his teeth against Moriaty’s bottom lip, and the older man hummed in surprise, one hand moving to cradle John’s jaw. A plan was quickly forming in John’s mind, and so when Moriarty pulled back, John chased his lips, making Moriarty chuckle with pleasure. “Mm, I know how you feel Johnny boy,” he murmured, brushing his lips against John’s again “You taste like rain,” he murmured, cool breath fanning over John’s face, thumb stroking his cheek appraisingly.

John stuck to his plan, and let his eyes drop back down to Moriarty’s lips in what he wanted to be a blatant disaplay of lust. “Can we…” he was whispering “Can we go somewhere private?”

Moriarty licked his lips, eyes blown wide with arousal “What would you be willing to do in private?”

John thrust his hips up. “Anything you wa-“

“John!” Sherlock yelled “Don’t do anything with hi-“

“God, Dad!” John snapped “Can’t you just let me make my own decisions once?” and apparently the fake venom in his voice was enough for Moriarty who hurriedly undid John’s bindings, and began leading him into a back room, when John knocked Moriarty to the ground, wrestling the gun out of his grip and sliding it across the room to where his father was still struggling in his bindings. Sherlock trapped the gun under his foot, and John cried out as Moriarty’s hands closed around his neck.

“Bad Johnny,” he murmured, as John spluttered, they rolled about, before John managed to get a knee to Moriarty’s groin, and run across the room, stumbling in his haste, picking up the gun, and whirling around to face Moriarty, who simply grinned “Oh come on, Johnny,” he laughed “You’re not going to fire. We both know that.”

“Don’t be so sure.” John hissed, stepping in front of his father, clicking the safety off “Don’t come any closer.”

“Have you told him, Sherlock?” Moriarty asked, staying where he was “Have you told him who I could be?”

“What?” John asked, not turning around, gun trained on the villain “What’s he talking about?”

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was strained “Don’t listen to anything he has to sa-“

“Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,” the Irish drawl giggled “What a bad thing to do. You wouldn’t really want John to shoot his father, would you?”

John’s hands shook “What? Dad! What?”

“John-“

“Oh tell him, Sherlock!” Moriarty roared, and John jumped to the side, gun still trained on Moriarty, but facing his dad. Sherlock’s hair was matted with sweat, plastered to his forehead, and John’s hands shook.

“Okay, okay,” Sherlock drew in a deep breath, bright blue eyes meeting his sons “John, there…there is a possibility that Jim could be…he could be…” his voice broke, and John stared in horror “He could be your father.”

“What? No.” He laughed weakly “That can’t- it can’t. You’re my dad.”

Moriarty grinned.

“Wait but-“ John closed his eyes for a moment “But you…you kissed me. What father does that? You’d have to be a complete per…” he trailed off, staring at James in horror “You’re crazy. You’re completely insane.” He choked on air “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?!”

“Hey, hey now,” Moriarty whispered, moving towards John, much calmer, and softer now “It’s okay. I know, I know you’re confused,” he took hold of the gun, not strong enough to pull it out of his grasp, but to lower his arms “Shh,” and he was being enveloped in a hug, warm, and tight and so weirdly reassuring. He closed his eyes, not wanting to deal with this. “I understand what you’re feeling,” Jim swallowed, carding fingers through John’s hair “Sherlock’s been lying to you. He’s known, all along, all along that you weren’t his-“

“John please!” and John realises belatedly that Sherlock is crying “Shoot him!”

And John does.

It’s a shot to the thigh, not near any major arteries, and Moriarty falls to the ground, crying out. John races to his father, undoing the bonds. They call Lestrade.

…

…

…

“Of course he’s yours,” Mycroft says with a smile, handing over the results, honest and open “Though I am reassured.”

“Wouldn’t have mattered.” John said firmly “Only dad’s my dad.”

Sherlock beamed.

Chapter Text

“Um…Mycroft? What is happening right now?” Sherlock asked, walking into his flat, only to see Molly fawning over John. His little five year old who was…Sherlock didn’t know what that was, only that his son looked heart wrenchingly adorable.

“It’s Hallows Eve, brother mine.” Mycroft drawled elegantly, sitting in his suit and sipping some tea. “Your son is going as a hobbit.”

“A hobbit?” Sherlock examined his little boy, whose hair had grown longer, and Molly had curled it, it made him look more like Sherlock. He was wearing a felt purple blazer, with ¾ length beige trousers and funny little shoes. “How did you do that to his ears?” He asked curiously, lifting a lock to examine the curved, and beautifully pointed ears. “They look eerily natural.”

“I took a class,” Molly beamed “I’m a huge fan of-“

“I’m not a hobbit, Uncle,” John pouted “I’m the Hobbit. I’m Bilbo Baggins!” He giggled delightedly, waving about a little wooden sword and kicking his feet “Look Daddy! Look! Uncle Mycroft got me the ring!” and the little golden band glinted on his finger.

Sherlock looked affronted, glaring at Mycroft “I would have got it for you,”

John lifts his arms up, fingers wriggling for his father to pick him up, and of course, Sherlock lifted him up, running his fingers through the curls. “Halloween, huh? Are Hobbits scary then?”

“No,” John giggled “Silly. Hobbits are cosy,” and he snuggled into Sherlock’s neck, completely trusting that his father wouldn’t let him fall. “You’re gonna be Smaug. Smaug’s very scary.”

Sherlock turned helplessly to his brother, who only smirked, so Sherlock turned to Molly, who was frowning at the severed hand in the microwave. “Oh,” she flustered “Well, Smaug’s the dragon, you know? Fire-breather, from the tri- oh, well anyway, we’ve got you a costume and everything.”

“A dragon?” Sherlock rolled his eyes “Would never work.”

“Oh, you’ve got the voice for it.” Mycroft drawled

“I thought you could be a necromancer.” John chimed, “But I think you’d be a good Smaug.”

“The costume’s good,” Mycroft grinned “I’m going to take photographs.”

The costume was beautiful, all shimmering with purples and reds, a thousand scale like sequins, in a form fitting shirt and trousers, a red horned headband, and an upturning horned tail, a cloak, split into two that fluttered like wings when he walked.

“Bilbo and Smaug,” Mycroft beamed, taking a picture, and Sherlock walks out of the flat, feeling pretty good, with little John clinging to his hand, they walk down the golden lit evening streets. This is about the time when most of the parents are taking young children out and about, they knock on the first door, and the woman beams down at John.

“Why if it isn’t Bilbo Baggins, strayed far from Bagend young Hobbit?”

John giggles up at her “A long way!”

“Well then you need lots of chocolate,” and she loaded up John’s pumpkin bag, nodding at Sherlock warmly, as they walked, Sherlock had to remind himself to take smaller steps, for John had three tiny steps to his one long stride-

“You have not actually dressed up as Smaug.” Sally stared in shock, her own little nephew glued to her side. She crossed her arms, peering down at John, who hid behind Sherlock’s leg at her cruel stare. “And who’s he supposed to be? The Hobbit? Hobbits aren’t scary.”

Sherlock smiled, before turning to the little nephew and grinning “Did you know that your auntie is having an affair with her fiancé?” The little boy gasped, and Sherlock nodded “Just look at her shoes. Tell your mummy to look at her shoes.” And he stood up, ruffling the skeletons hair, “Besides, John makes a brilliant Hobbit.”

John beamed.

As the evening drew on, and night began to wade, John grew sleepy, his little pumpkin bag overflowing with chocolate, and Sherlock cradled him in his arms, turning, and about to head home, when Lestrade jumped out a taxi just down the road, and sprinted towards him. “Case, Sherlock,” he panted, holding out a file “You’ll like this one.”

Sherlock felt John’s nose nudge his neck, a silent plea to stay. “It’s Halloween, Lestrade,” Sherlock shrugged “I would have figured you knew that.”

“The guy hunts on Halloween.”

Sherlock’s bones tingled with excitement “Only ever Halloween?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh that’s intr-“

“Is it a 7 out of 10, Daddy?” John asked, wiping drowsiness from his blue eyes, and Sherlock hesitated, before snatching the folder and giving it a skim.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” murmured the consulting detective “At least an 8.4…”

“Okay,” John nodded, getting set on the ground “Um…” He looked around curiously, before nodding to himself “I know how to get home from here.” He said determinedly, and turned around, and set on his way. Sherlock watched, eyebrows drawn together, thinking of all the potential danger, but then Lestrade was gripping his arm, hauling him into a cab

“He’ll be fine, Sherlock, it’s Halloween, loads of children everywhere.”

…

…

…

He was fine.

Sherlock got home at about 3:00am, body still humming from the thrill of a good case, when he saw John asleep on the sofa, still in his costume, and Mycroft snoring in the armchair, both of them covered with chocolate wrappers, and a finished game of Connect Four between them. Sherlock smiled, John had won.

He crept into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, when Mycroft shifted, blinking awake. He yawned, voice soft “You know, with his hair all curled like that, he looks more like you than I could have ever imagined.” Sherlock nodded, gulping down half the glass “Anyway, did you solve your case?”

“I did. Turns out interrogation is much faster when you’re dressed as an evil dragon.” His eyes drifted to John “I hope you didn’t let him eat all the chocolate. He’s going to be sick in the morning.” Sherlock remembered from John’s birthday, he’d complained the whole day about how upset his tummy felt, and Sherlock had spent the entire day fawning over him. “And why are you still here?”

“Because John came home, and asked me how much he was out of 10.”

Sherlock blinked, shaking his head “I don’t understand.”

“The case, the case you abandoned him for on Halloween, his first Halloween with you, because last year you and he were off in Australia hunting down an escaped wolf, and you abandoned him because it was an 8.4 out of 10.” Mycroft began delicately removing the sweet wrappers off himself, one by one, he placed them on the table, “So he asked me how much he was out of 10. I, of course, said 10, and he said that he had to be below 7, and yet above 5.” Mycroft stood up, pressing his lips together “He’s a six out of ten, Sherlock.”

“I don’t rate my son-“

“No. But you’ve made it so he rates himself.”

“I spent the whole night with him, Mycroft! I took him trick or treating and carried him around the streets of London! I wore this ridiculous costume for him! I was only gone for 6 hours! To save lives!”

“I know,” Mycroft nodded, soothingly, he picked up his coat and his umbrella, “But you asked me why I was still here, well it was because I knew it would happen. And he needed someone here when he came home.” He headed for the door, blue eyes soft “I know you love him, Sherlock. More than you’ve ever loved anything in your entire life, and I know he’ll forgive you for this, as he forgives you for everything. Because to him, you are infallible. But one day, I won’t be here waiting for him. Nor will Mrs Hudson be here to make him dinner, he’ll come home, and this flat will be empty. And he’ll realise he’s alone. And that’s something no one should ever have to realise.”

Sherlock stood, mollified, shaking his head “What do I…I don’t…Mycroft,” he grabbed his brother’s arm, voice pleading “You’re better at this than I am, you know…you always know what to say to make John alright, and I don’t know how you do it-“

“I know how to do it because I have a little brother.” Mycroft laughed “Don’t you remember, Sherlock? How I got you to eat your porridge? How I was the only one who could get you to put on your smart clothes for church on Sunday. These skills are learnt, and you will learn them too.” He nodded, leaving, and Sherlock was left in the dimly lit flat. He wondered over to John, lifting him carefully, and carrying him to bed.

John woke up as he was tucked into the blankets, Sherlock lying beside him “Daddy?” He asked in a whisper “Did you find the bad guy?”

“Yeah,” he kissed John’s forehead “You’re ten out of ten, John, you know that.” He felt John yawn against his neck, snuggling into sleep again. “You know that, don’t you? That no case is more important than you.”

“Shh Daddy,” John slurred “’m sleepin’”

…

…

…

“Come on Sherlock,” the 13 year old nudged his 6 year old brother with his foot “Just eat the porridge.”

“I don’t like porridge!” Sherlock cried, brown curls a tumbled mess on his head, he pushed the bowl forward, crossing his arms stubbornly. Mycroft sighed, and moved across to sit beside his brother, wrapping his arms around him.

“How about, for every two bites you take, I’ll take one.”

Sherlock peered up at him curiously “You don’t like porridge.”

“Neither do you.”

Sherlock eyed him curiously, before reaching forward and tugging the bowl bag. He took two, relatively small spoonfulls, before pushing it to Mycroft, who loaded up his own silver spoon generously, taking a bite. He loved porridge. Not that Sherlock needed to know that. Sherlock grinned delightedly, taking two more, much larger spoonfulls. Till the whole bowl was gone. “Can we go upstairs now?” Sherlock asked, lifting his arms up, and Mycroft hauled him up with a fond smile.

…

Mycroft watched, hiding his smile behind his newspaper, as Sherlock tried to get John to eat his porridge. “I don’t like porridge, daddy!” The five year old whined, kicking his feet “I’m not eating any!”

Sherlock placed his hand on the back of John’s neck, running his thumb along the nape soothingly “How about, every time you take a spoonful of porridge, I take a mouthful of…banana.” And he plucked the yellow herb from the fruit bowl. John’s eyebrows pulled together, and he turned to Mycroft

“Uncle, does daddy like bananas?”

“He loathes them.”

John beamed “Okay!” and took a spoonful of porridge.

…

…

…

“I like your hair like this.” Sherlock said the following morning, as he and John walked into the police station. John was sat on Sherlock’s shoulders, munching away at a hotdog. “I like it curly. Looks like mine.”

John touched his hair happily, the light brown-blond curls tumbled into his forehead, and he took another bite of his hotdog.

Lestrade sighed as they walked in, looking up at John and then down at Sherlock “Tell me that isn’t his breakfast.”

“He hates porridge. And he’s ten out of ten, I had to buy it for him.” Lestrade watched, amused, as John reached down, holding a piece of the hotdog, a little bite sized chunk of bread and sausage, in front of his father’s mouth, and Sherlock took it with his teeth, chewing away. “So,” he murmured, after he’d swallowed “What’s the matter?”

Lestrade looked pointedly at John “It’s pretty violent, Sherlock.”

“Edit. He’s not leaving me. I’m making it up to him today.”

Lestrade glared at Sherlock, before rolling his eyes “Fine. So, a number of people have been finished, and their…brains have been-“

“My god, Lestrade.” Sherlock snapped, tugging John down from his shoulders and onto his hip, he kissed his sons nose “Why don’t you go find Anderson? Tie his shoelaces together? Annoy the hell out of him.”

“Okay daddy,” John giggled, “Bye Uncle Greg!” And he scampered out of the room.

“It’s not my fault!” Greg cried at Sherlock’s look “How do I say ‘he’s gauging out their brains while they’re still alive’ in code?”

…

…

…

“I’m hungry.” John chimed, tugging on Anderson’s trousers, and Anderson sighed

“Go find your father.” John’s eyes went round as saucers, tears sprinkling in them and Anderson freaked, hauling John up. “Oh, no, no don’t cry, I’ll get you something, what would you like, huh? Pie? I could buy you a pie.”

“I like pie,” John grinned, as he was carried through the police station. He looked around for his father, catching sight of him looking at a map, and he waved excitedly, his father saw him, and looked quite pained, rushing over and grabbing John out of Anderson’s arms. Anderson frowned

“I was just taking him for lunch.”

“I can do that,” Sherlock murmured, and John frowned

“But you’re working a case, dadd-“

“A break.” He pressed a kiss to John’s forehead, and strode out. Anderson blinked, turning to Lestrade

“He’s changed, hasn’t he? Properly changed, I mean.”

“For the better.” Lestrade nodded “I notice he hasn’t made any of the interns cry since he got John. Imagine it, two Sherlock Holmes’ running around.” Anderson paled in horror.

…

…

…

“Mummy always said she loved you.” John said through a mouthful of blueberry pie he sat opposite his father in a small café, both of them sharing a pie.

“She spoke of me often?” Sherlock murmured, scooping up some pie

“Mmhmm,” he licked his lips happily “Said you knew everything.”

“Was she a good mother?”

“Yes. She never got angry with me. Well…only once.” He frowned as he tried to remember more “I…” he closed his eyes to help visualise “I found it in our cellar, a…a riding crop, that’s what mummy said it was. She got upset, yelled at me, told me to go to my room, but I came down when I heard her crying.” He opened his eyes, shaking his head “She told me to forget about it, read me a bedtime story, and…” he shrugged “We never talked ‘bout it again.”

“Do you know what a riding crop is?”

“You have one.” John shrugged “That black thing you take into the morgue.”

Sherlock smiled warmly, ruffling John’s curls “Do you know how proud you make me?”

John warmed at the praise delightedly “This proud!” And he held his arms as far apart as he could muster.

Sherlock laughed, “Now, why don’t you tell me a bit about who on earth Bilbo Baggins is?”

“Not earth daddy,” he giggled “Middle Earth. It starts when Gandalf shows up at Bilbo’s House, Bilbo doesn’t remember him at first but…”

…

…

…

“Sherlock-“

“Shut up.” Sherlock snapped, and Lestrade sighed, tugging Mycroft into the room, pointing.

“They have been sat there, for two days.”

Mycroft frowned, stepping forward, seeing Sherlock and John wrapped up in a blanket on the sofa, eating popcorn, eyes glued to the screen. “Sherlock?” He tried hesitantly “You ok-“

“Mycroft! Mycroft, can’t you see? Gandalf the White is evil. Evil!”

“Is that…” Mycroft turned to the screen, before rubbing his face with his hands “You’ve been sat here for two days watching Lord of the Rings?”

“We started with the Hobbit.” Sherlock nodded, bringing popcorn to his mouth, neither looked away from the tv “Come, sit.”

“Sherlock-“

“Martin Freeman was an incredible actor. Why didn’t they keep him for the Lord of the Rings films?”

“Lord of the Rings was made first, and Bilbo’s older in those. It’s more about Frodo.”

“God, I love Frodo.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, ushering himself and Lestrade out “Let them.” He murmured, and Lestrade looked back over his shoulder, to see John snuggle further into Sherlock’s arms, and Sherlock hug him tightly, as they watched the battle on screen.

“Okay,” he nodded “Okay.”

And another day later, Mycroft went up to check on them, only to see them back in their Halloween costumes, fast asleep, traces of blueberry pie on their faces.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock, what the hell do you think you’re doing? You cannot just phone the Queen’s secret service for no reason!” Mycroft hissed, storming into the apartment, with 6 Secret Agents behind him, wielding weapons. He came to an abrupt halt, however, when he saw Sherlock, on his knees, on the floor, John, only 6 years old, limp and pale and sweat stricken in his arms.

“He’s not moving.” Sherlock whispered brokenly, tears sliding down his face as he cradled his little boy “He just stopped moving, there’s sick in his bed and- I can’t breathe Mycroft-“

“Call an ambulance.” Mycroft orders, and when no one moves, he whirls around to the bewildered agents behind him “NOW!” And they rush to do so, he moves to John, kneeling opposite his brother. There’s sick on the floor as well, and Mycroft’s jaw aches in pain at the sight

“How long?” He asked, pressing his fingers into John’s neck “How long hasn’t he been moving, Sherlock?”

“3-4 minutes,” Sherlock’s rocking slightly “I didn’t…I didn’t know what to do, I…” he’s shaking, every inch of his body is shaking, and it makes John shake too “I just grabbed my phone, and you were the first contact, but I pressed something- Secret Service- Mycroft!” He was wailing “Mycroft what’s happening?! Please, god please, what’s happening to him?” he’s sobbing again, and Mycroft doesn’t know.

“He’ll be okay,” he reassures instead, to both Sherlock and himself “He’s gonna be fine, he’s gonna be okay-“

“He has to be okay!” Sherlock cries, anguish and torment leak into his voice, and Mycroft “Mycroft, Mycroft he has to be-“

“He will.” Mycroft pries John from Sherlock’s death grip, feeling John lifeless in his arms and he grits his teeth, because he’s not allowed to be nervous and scared. Not now. Not when Sherlock is losing it, Mycroft has to force himself in a surreal calmness, when all he wants to do is burst in to tears.

…

…

…

Poor Nurse Tilly.

After John’s been taken into critical care, the Holmes Brothers keep coming up to her, threatening the wrath of the British Government and her local police force if she doesn’t do something to help the little boy with tousled blond curls. She tries to do everything she can, but then the younger one informs her that he knows she fancies the girl upstairs, and she doesn’t know how, but it stuns her.

“Holmes, John?” The Doctor asks, a kind woman, in her late 40’s, Mycroft and Sherlock have been waiting over an hour, and so nearly run to her. She placates them with a raised hand “He’s gonna be okay,” and Mycroft has to grip Sherlock’s arm, because his little brother is hissing in air, knees weak. “It was a delayed reaction to food, it was…” she scans the file “Oxybutane tablets, the kind you give to cure indigestion. He’s allergic, and after his body broke it down, it caused a system break down. We’ve managed to get rid of it all, but he’s gonna be tired, plus his throat will be a little sore, his body was trying to throw a lot of it up.” She shot them a reassuring smile “Give him a few days, lots of ice-cream, he’ll be just fine.” She looked down at her chart again “Room 238.”

They’re sprinting down the halls.

Sherlock gets their first, and Mycroft nearly bashes into the back of him, and then they both look at the tiny figure in the hospital bed. He’s on an IV drip, small and frail against the large white bed. “I didn’t even know they made hospital gowns for children,” Sherlock murmurs, crossing the room, tugging the white blanket further up John. Wanting to keep him warm.

“Oxybutane,” Mycroft asks curiously “Where would he get that?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock shakes his head “It’s not one of my chemicals, I don’t use it, I can’t think-“ he takes in a deep, shuddering breath, carding his fingers through John’s locks.

“It can wait.” Mycroft promises “It can wait till he wakes up.”

…

…

…

Sun slithers through the window the next morning, and John blinks. His throat is sore, but he looks around, and a glass of water has been placed beside him. He picked it up, glass cold against his fingers, and drinks. Drinks until all the water is gone. And then he looks around. The room is empty, but clean and clear, and the window looks out onto the fields, onto sunrise. A hospital. John frowns when he realises he’s in a dress. Dresses are for girls. It feels weird to be in a room so clean, home is so clustered, but here, everything is white and spotless, nothing out of place. “There are tubes in my arms,” he frowns, bringing his wrist up to his face, examining it.

There’s a ragged sigh of relief, and John whirls to face the door, beaming at his Uncle Mycroft, who’s rubbing his eyes “How long have you been awake, soldier?” he murmurs with a smile, moving forward pressing his fingers along John’s scalp, and the little boy leans in for the touch like a puppy.

“Not long,” he chimes “What are we doing here?”

“You got sick,” Mycroft murmurs “Gave your father and I quite a fright. But you’re okay now, you’re gonna be fine,” his voice is breathy and pleased, and he hugs John tightly “Let me get your dad.” And he walks out of the room, and not two seconds later, Sherlock is there.

He looks exhausted. Hair greasy and hanging down in long ringlets, clothes creased and slept in. John checks his feelings. Too many, all ringing out at him at once. Joy. Pain. Loss. Hurt. Anger. Love. Love. Love. “John,” Sherlock breathes, “You’re awake.”

John giggles “Tubes in my arms, daddy, don’t like ‘em,” and he pushes his wrists forward, for his father to fix everything. Sherlock just kisses both his palms, and wraps his arms around him.

“You need the tubes right now, they’re helping you.”

John frowns suspiciously, looking at Mycroft “Uncle Mycroft said I was all better now. Time to go home. I want bacon.”

“Appetite is a good sign,” Doctor Mella smiles, walking inside. John shrinks back at the presence of a stranger, but his father is now sat on the bed with him, and Mycroft stands in front of them like a guard. “Hello John, I’m Doctor Mella, how are you feeling?”

“Fine,” John says, peaking out at her from behind Sherlock’s elbow “Tubes in my arms. Don’t like ‘em.”

“I’ll take them out,” she promises, setting down her clipboard and moving towards him “As long as you have a nice big breakfast. There are some nice cafes around here,” she nods at Sherlock and Mycroft “Have a big breakfast.” And unplugs him carefully, peeling off the tape. “We’ve washed your clothes for you, all nice and soap smelling,” she passes a large plastic wallet, with John’s clothes neatly folded inside. “Now,” she checks his eyes, mouth and ears, before commenting on how ticklish he is, and then nods at the brothers “He’ll be absolutely fine. Just sign a few papers, and he can be on his way.”

“Where’s daddy?” John asks, mouth full, as he tucks into his breakfast. Mycroft watches with amusement, a full English breakfast, bacon, eggs, beans, toast, sausage, mushroom, with a brownie and ice cream afterwards, and a huge jug of orange juice.

“Your father was recently enlightened.” He states, reaching over and wiping sauce from John’s chin, as well as stealing a piece of bacon. John cocks his head

“I don’t remember how I got to hospital.”

“Yes, it was rather a fright.”

“But you weren’t scared, were you Uncle Mycroft? You don’t get scared.” He yanks off a piece of bacon with his teeth

“Oh, I was petrified, John.” He says sombrely, clasping his hands “Absolutely petrified. You are not allowed to ever die, you understand?”

John grins, nodding “I won’t, Uncle,” he promises “Because you should never be scared. Or sad. Ever. I love you,” and he reaches across a tiny hand, covered with sauce and beans, but Mycroft takes it anyway, and squeezes it tight. “You won’t ever die either, will you?”

“Of course not,” he promises, eyes twinkling “I could never do that to you.”

…

…

…

“Excuse me, do I know you?”

“John came for a sleep over four days ago.” Sherlock snaps, marching into the house, and Sandra scowls at him

“You’re his father, aren’t you? The other parents talk about you. Think you’re crazy.”

“I bet they do.” Sherlock called, storming into the kitchen, and throwing cups and glasses and cans of soup onto the floor as he searched for the tablets, crying out in victory when he did, ignoring Sandra’s cries of protest “Oxybutane.” He hissed, throwing the tablets at her “You gave these to John when he came here on a sleep over, but he was allergic to them. He’s been in the hospital for two days!” He pulls a gun out of his pocket, and Sandra screams, frozen to the spot

“I didn’t know!” She cries “Oh god, I didn’t know. He said he had a tummy ache and-“

“I’m not going to kill you, stupid woman!” Sherlock rolls his eyes, and aims instead for the kitchen window. He shoots them out, and then all the windows in the living room, and then the dining room, before sighing in relief. “There we go,” he chuckles warmly, if not a little madly “Just had to get it out of my system.”

Sandra is staring at him with something akin to fascination and disbelief. “You’re a psyco-“

“Sandra.” He chimes

“Sociopath.” She spits, and Sherlock nods, smiling, and heading for the door. Except he stops just before he leaves

“If John ever, ever gets hurt under your care again, I will have you locked up in prison for life and make sure your son gets sent to your sister.” And he slams the door behind him.

“Mum?” her son calls from upstairs, voice sleep ruffled “Was that someone at the door?”

Sandra sighs.

…

…

…

“A sailor went to sea, sea, sea, to see what he could see, see, see…” John is sitting on Sherlock’s lap, facing his father, Sherlock is holding his hands up, and John is attempting to play a clapping game with him, which Sherlock isn’t participating in, but John doesn’t mind.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade sighs, sitting opposite him in the taxi “You went into a woman’s house with a gun.”

“But I didn’t shoot her. Never planned to shoot her.”

“Destruction of property!”

“She tried to kill John!”

“But all that he could see, see, see was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea!” John giggles, happily, clapping away “Daddy!” He presses his forehead into Sherlock’s hands, nuzzling them like a cat would. Sherlock kisses the top of his head. He feels John sing into his shirt “A sailor went to sea, sea, sea to see…”

Lestrade half smiled “So, you called the British Secret Service because your boy had an allergic reaction. Freak out, much?”

“Not my best plan, but it worked, didn’t it?” He wrapped his coat around John as well, tightening them further together as the car drove along. Lestrade’s smile became softer, as he glimpsed the pained father who thought he was losing everything, and decided not to bring Sherlock in for questioning about Sandra. At least not today.

…

…

…

“I worry, Sherlock.” Mycroft whispered, looking into the fire, swirling his scotch in the palm of his hand “This happens. Whenever something effects John, whenever he is in danger, you lose the ability to think correctly. To know what to do. We need…he needs someone there. Someone who won’t lose it.”

Sherlock said nothing, staring into the flames.

“A woman, Sherlock. A mother figure. And Mrs Hudson just won’t do.”

“A mother figure,” Sherlock repeats “And who do you propose, I take on for that?”

“Come now, little brother. Don’t play coy with me. We both know that you could easily charm any woman if you so wanted. So find a woman, a good woman, act as though you like her, bring her in. For John. You could do that for John, couldn’t you?”

“I could do anything for him.”

“Well there,” Mycroft smiled “All settled then, isn’t it?”

“I don’t want anyone to replace mommy,” comes a little voice, and both brothers whirl around to see John, in his baby blue pyjamas, blanket still wrapped around him. They’re in Mycroft’s house right now, because it’s closer to the hospital. He pads forward, bare feed thudding gently against the wooden floors, and he crawls into Mycroft’s lap, much to Sherlock’s irritation. Mycroft wraps the blanket tighter around John.

“I know, John,” he says quietly, brushing a thumb over John’s temple “But we need someone to take care of you-“

“Daddy takes care of me.” He protested, setting down his head on Mycroft’s chest “And you take care of me. And Mrs Hudson. And Grandma, and Grandpa, and Molly, and Uncle Greg.” He brings his thumb up to his mouth, and Mycroft catches it reflexively “I love mummy, Uncle. And there’s only one of her, and she’s mine, and she’s gone. I don’t want another one.”

Mycroft nods, “Okay,” he promises “Okay,”

Sherlock smiles proudly at his little boy, but Mycroft chuckles

“John, why don’t you sit on your father’s lap? He’s glaring daggers at me.”

“Hm? Oh.” John looks surprised “But daddy said that he can’t concentrate when I do that.”

“Don’t be silly,” Sherlock chuckles, hauling John, blanket and all, onto his own lap, he wraps his arms around him, and then kicks his own legs up onto Mycroft’s lap, and Mycroft kicks his legs up onto their armchair, and the three of them fall asleep, and entangled mess in front of the diminishing fire. And for a night, for a lifetime, it seems.

Everything is perfect.

Chapter Text

“Oh Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson beamed, rushing up the stairs, and Sherlock, 48, but aging beautifully, arched an eyebrow at her “Oh, come downstairs love, it’s wonderful! Simply wonderful!”

“I’m sure,” he drawls dryly, but follows her obligingly down the stairs, stopping short when he sees John. His John, who should be serving in Afghani- cane. Ah. He pulls John in for a bone crushing hug, John is half an inch shorter than him, oh but they fit together perfectly. “What happened?” He breathes, inhaling the scent of his boy. He smells like grass, and rain.

“Got bloody shot, dad,” John laughs, shoving him slightly “What do you think?” he’s still in his military uniform, hair cropped, and short, but undeniably thick and blond. He looks around, relieved “Things look the same then,”

“Wasn’t gonna redecorate without consulting you,”

“Ah! So my spy drones are correct!” comes the voice of the 55 year old Mycroft Holmes, and John is whirling around and hugging him too.

The day goes by easily enough, they all talk, and chat, and catch up, and Sherlock gets inexplicably angry about whoever it was that shot his little boy. They eat dinner, and they’re all ecstatic when they hear John’s got three months leave, paid leave. “So, I was thinking we’d solve cases,” John grinned “I can be of proper help now. Want to write my blog again.”

“That’s a brilliant idea,” Sherlock beams honestly, and they both lounge in their armchairs, eating delicious lamb that Mrs Hudson slaved over. They’re watching some medical show, and Sherlock is bursting with pride because John keeps pointing out all the inaccuracies, and it’s reassuring. So reassuring to know that all the horrors and tragedies of war haven’t ruined his boy.

Till he’s woken by a scream. He runs upstairs to John’s perfectly preserved room, to see him sitting in his bed, sweat slicked and panting. “Sorry,” he whispers “God I’m…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“It’s…we found mums killers, I told you- in the letter, and…they had pictures of the stuff they’d done to people, and, I’ve seen worse you know, but they took pictures.” His voice is sick and he rubs at his eyes. Sherlock moves to sit beside him, soothing arm around his shoulders.

“I get nightmares,” he confessed “About you. Fighting. Getting hurt.” He points to John’s leg “You know that limp is psychosomatic, right?” John shoots him a lop-sided smile

“Tell that to my body.”

Sherlock grins.

…

…

…

“I uh….” He stumbles over his words bashfully, looking around the flat, and Sherlock sips his tea, amused.

“What is it, Jake?”

“Well, uh, n-nothing, Mr H, it’s just…” he looks around again, “I heard that…that maybe-“

“John’s upstairs.”

Jake looks like he might cry, and Sherlock nods his approval for him to run upstairs, barely managing to not trip over his feet. Sherlock likes Jake. He makes a fine Detective Inspector, taking Lestrade’s job, and he takes Sherlock’s word as gospel, so that makes things a lot easier. He sips his tea, and then picks up his violin, to give them some privacy.

“John?”

“Blimey, Jake?” John looks up with a grin from where he was putting on his socks. The limp is gone. Just like that. As he races over to hug his boyfriend. “God, look at you!” His eyes are burning bright and honest blue “You look great, mate.”

Jake ducks his head shyly, and gestures to everything that encompasses John “I’ve missed you so much. Did you get my letters?”

“I love it when you write about cases. And I love it when you write about conspiracy theories. Keeps me up laughing.”

Jake shudders with pleasure at the words, and shoves John onto the bed, the squeak of the mattress suddenly drowned out by the violin playing downstairs. Jake groans into John’s shoulder “It freaks me out when he does that. How does he know when we’re about too…?”

“Don’t question it,” John grinned, thrusting his hips up, and suddenly, the violin downstairs becomes white noise.

…

…

…

“We…” John hisses, shoving the gun into his back pocket “Are breaking in to a brothel. You know that, right? We’re breaking into a brothel. We’re father and son! My god, if we’re caught, we’re gonna be in the news. And not for good reasons, dad.”

“Come on,” Sherlock throws him a grin, inching along the shadows of the sewers under the brothel “She keeps the hidden gem in her g-string. Now…what exactly is a g-string?”

“It’s…” John struggled “Underpants. For…ladies. I guess.”

“Why’s is cal- oh. Oh.” He grimaced at the thoughts, kicking away a stray dead rat, ignoring John who was trying to stifle his laughter.

…

…

…

When the three months are over, John doesn’t want to leave.

“I can pull strings,” Mycroft offered, the evening before he was due to leave. “Stay. Stay with him.” He looks to Sherlock, snoring on the sofa. “He’s not as young as he used to be, John. Oh, I’ve no doubt he’ll be working for a good more 20 years, but these are the moments he’ll remember. Without you, he…he crumbles.”

“I can’t just abandon my fellow soldiers,” John murmurs sadly “I…I want to stay. But I can’t leave them. Not now. We’ve all risked our lives for each other, we all owe each other.”

“Okay,” Mycroft nodded sadly “But I can also make it so, for three months each year, you get to come home.”

John twitched hopefully. “Really?”

“John, I practically am the British Government.”

Sherlock grins over at them from the sofa “He really is.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock knows it’s probably some sort of invasion of privacy, but he honestly doesn’t care. He loves John, and he wants to know every part of him. Wants to know what he’s like with his friends, at school, and it’s not hard to hack Mycroft’s password, see the drones, school security, audio footage, and it’s like watching a documentary, watching John.

“Johnathon.” Mrs Harley snaps “You’re late.”

John pauses on his way to his seat, and frowns “But…half the class isn’t here yet-“

“I wasn’t talking about half the class, I was talking about you.”

“Oh. Right.” He blinks “Uh…sorry?” She nods, about to turn back to the whiteboard when he offers “It’s John, actually, Miss, not Johnathon.” She glares at the back of his head, as he collapses into his seat. The classroom is set out oddly. Not rows like in Sherlock’s day, but rather loads of circular tables, a group of friends on each.

At John’s table, Sherlock can identify Jake, the others, though all close friends of John, he struggles with. Two more boys, and a girl. “What was that about?” Jake frowned, watching John unload his books

“My dad sent her husband to prison last week. I’m guessing she’s a little sour.”

“Shouldn’t have married a killer,” the boy beside John shrugs, and John grins, nudging him

“Thanks Tom, glad to see someone’s on my side.”

Ah, so Tom. Sherlock scans him over, clearly a rugby player, with dark hair and green eyes. He zooms the camera forward to the other boy, there’s a name on his pencil case. Richard. Richard’s also rather bulky, another rugby player, and if his body language is anything to go by, he doesn’t like Tom or Jake. He seems to only like John and the girl. The girl…Sherlock frowns, trying to remember her name. Dawn. Dawn, he thinks.

“Tell coach I’m gonna miss practice, would ya, Johnny?” Richard asks, wrapping his arm around Dawn. There’s something odd about the way John twitches.

“Sure mate, is that the detention from Mr Hardy?” John’s pointedly looking at Richard, hand clenched tight around his pencil. Sherlock frowns. He doesn’t understand where the sudden tension in his just turned 16 year old has come from. Oh.

Oh.

Sherlock feels a pang of sympathy, John likes Dawn. Of course he does, look at the way he’s twiddling his pencil, how his eyes keep sliding inadvertently to hers. Sherlock feels anger. Dawn’s smiling at John, giving him cause to hope. He doesn’t like that.

He fast forwards to the next lesson. Which sees Tom, Jake, and Richard all going to PE, while Dawn and John head to art. They sit alone together at the end of a table, opposite each other, splashing colours onto pieces of paper.

“You’re so bad at art,” Dawn grins, laughing as she sprinkles glitter over her work

“What? No way am I bad.” John’s sarcastic, teasing voice drifts back “In fact, look at this-“ he lifts his piece of paper up and holds it beside his face. “I drew myself and the likeness…I can’t even tell myself apart.” He’s funny, Sherlock grins, he has Dawn shaking with laughter, wiping her eyes. “So,” John murmurs, dipping his fingers into red paint, and streaking it across the paper “How are things with you and Richard?”

“Fine,” she says quietly, eyebrows drawing together “He wants me to miss the school music trip to watch the rugby game.”

“Don’t.” John says firmly, and she looks up at him, with glittering brown eyes “Don’t, do that, I mean…I mean I’d love for you to watch this match, mainly cuz I’m in it,” she laughs wetly “But…that music trip, you’ve been saving up for ages. Seriously, if I was your boyfriend, I’d be forcing you onto that plane.” He reaches out and takes her hand, smearing red paint all over her wrist, and she makes a look of disgust

“You’re so perfect, John,” she murmurs quietly “And listen, I know you…I mean, last week, when you asked me out-“

“Listen, listen, I’m sorry about that.” And Sherlock’s sitting up, because he didn’t know that John asked her out “I thought you and Richard were seriously broken up, and I…listen, it didn’t mean anything. We’re friends. Just…just friends.”

Dawn nods “Maybe in a different world,” she offers

John laughs, pulling his hand away “Hey, I’m still holding out hope in this one.”

She hides a smile behind her hand, and Sherlock realises belatedly that Dawn does like John back. She’s just too stupid to act on it, and after a quick deduction of her, he sadly realises, she will always be too stupid to act on it. Dawn and John will never be together, he can read it clear as day, and he wants to tell John to give up, but he can’t. He can’t ever diminish the hope in those eyes.

John shakes as Richard grabs the back of his school shirt, hauling him across the haul “Did you ask my girl out last week?” He growls, and John swallows “Because what kind of boyfriend would I be if I just allowed that to have happened and just let it go-“

“No, wait, listen mate-“ he’s choking in the collar pulled tight around his neck “It was just as friends, you know, a shoulder to cry on and all that, she’s like a sis-“

“Relax!” Richard bursts out laughing suddenly, wrapping his arms around John and ruffling his hair “Just a joke mate, I know she’d never say yes to you!”

Lunch is fascinating.

Sherlock never had many friends in secondary school, but John is incredibly popular. And Sherlock can guess why. He’s not afraid to make fun of himself, there’s only one person who doesn’t like John, a snarky boy called Max with no friends of his own, and when he calls John a queer with a small dick. And John just hugs him tightly and says his dick is smaller than small, and that he’s not a queer, but he would be for Max. It has everyone clutching their sides with laughter, and Max slinks off uncomfortably.

Right now, John is standing in front of a large lunch table, half a turkey sandwich in his hand as he takes bites between the joke he’s telling. All eyes are on him, and they are adoring. Sherlock’s heart burst with pride. John’s tie has been loosened, blazer discarded, top buttons undone, and hair a spikey mess.

“Go on, John!” A boy calls “Finish it!”

John swallows another bite, and raises his hand to placate them “Alright, alright, so the lady frees the genie, and he says ‘great, now you get three wishes. But remember, what you wish for, you’re husband gets ten times more.’ And she’s like, ‘yeah yeah, that’s all fine’,” he wipes his mouth “So she wishes to be the most beautiful woman in the world, right? And the genies like, yeah fine, but your husband will be ten times more handsome. And the woman goes, that’s fine, because you know, I’ll still be the most beautiful woman, so he’ll still love me.”

Sherlock leans back in his chair, listening

“So then she wishes to be the richest woman in the world, genie says again, her husband will be the richest man, and she says ‘that’s fine, because we’re married, and we share everything’. So finally, for her last wish, the genie asks her what she wants and she says-“ John breaks into a fit of laughter, and Tom throws his coat at him

“Come on, John! Finish it! Tell us!”

“Come on John,” Dawn laughs, as do the rest of his year

“Okay, she wishes to have a mild heart attack!”

The year ripples with laughter, and Sherlock finds himself grinning despite himself.

The rest of the day passes normally enough, until the final bell rings. John, Tom, Jake, Richard and Dawn are all loitering around the school field, just chatting before they have to head home, when a group of three boys, older than them if their height is anything to go by, crowd around them.

“Hey John,” one of them calls, and John swallows thickly, nodding

“Hi-hiya Gavin.”

“You played well on Friday,” Gavin nods, inhaling his cigarette

“Tough game, not our best. We lost by a wide margin.” Sherlock watches John stand a little way in front of his friends, he’s not the tallest, he won’t have his growth spurt for a few months yet, but he’s still prepared.

“Nah mate, it weren’t your fault. I know whose fault it was.” He points a finger at Jake, who, just by looking at his physique, is not a great rugby player

“Yeah, well it was only his second game.” John defends, moving to step in front of Jake now that he knows who the target is “He was only put on because Fred hurt his leg.” John steps to the side when Gavin steps forward “Come on man, we’re just heading home-“

“Boys.” Gavin snaps his fingers, and suddenly his two friends are holding John’s arms. “Don’t leave any bruises, we all know who his father is.” And then Gavin grabs Jake. Richard drags Dawn away, but Tom hovers, trying to help, only to get punched square in the face, and run off, promising to get help.

John struggles vainly, yelling till his voice is hoarse, and then he gets the idea to lean over, and bite one of the goons shoulders so hard he jumps and screams, and then he wriggles out of the other ones grip, and kicks Gavin hard in the face. The sound of footsteps of what turns out to be a passer-by, sends the boys running, and John kneels beside Jake, who looks breathless, but otherwise fine. “You okay, mate?” John breathes, brushing Jake’s hair from his eyes “Christ, don’t listen to them, you played fine-“

“John.” Jake manages, hugging John tightly, and John laughs into his shoulder

“Come on, I’ll walk you home. Maybe your mum will give me some of those biscuits I love so much.”

Jake wipes his eyes laughing “You can have the whole box.”

Sherlock, who was digging his nails when the boys were holding John, lets out a breath of relief. He’s glad his reputation is protecting John (as much as it puts him in danger) and he clicks his fingers, turning off his computer. In effect, he learnt nothing knew today. He knew John was brave, funny, and a sucker for a pretty girl with a kind voice, it just reiterates it to see it in action, makes it more commendable and real. He looks up when John heads through the door, grinning.

“Hey dad, what did you do today? Catch a murderer? Save the queen?”

“Please John, that was so last week.” Sherlock watches John head into the kitchen, when his boy comes out, holding a packet of biscuits

“These are my favourite,” he beams, and Sherlock busies himself with the newspaper

“Really? How odd. I picked them up randomly.” John shrugged, taking a bite, he collapses onto the sofa, and Sherlock bit the inside of his lip. He didn’t want to say anything, he didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t… “John?” Sherlock asks, and John looks up, eyebrows raised expectantly “Um…that girl, Dawn, in your year, is she?”

“Yeah,” he finishes the biscuit “Why?”

“She’s not…I wouldn’t recommend.”

John looked at him for a long, deciding moment. Before picking up a book from the clustered stand beside the armchair, opening it up to a random page “Yeah well…that doesn’t really matter anyway. She’s with someone. I wouldn’t do anything while she was with someone.” He kept his eyes fixed steadily on the words, and Sherlock bit his tongue to rebate himself. “And anyway!” John started again “It’s not as though she likes me back. I mean, she likes me, but only as a friend, and…” he looked up at his father helplessly “What did you see, dad?” He asked softly, “With your great deductions?”

Sherlock sighed; “She likes you, John, but she’s never going to leave Richard. You should…stop wasting your time.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Right,” John rubbed the back of his neck “Well, like I said anyway, we’re just…mates.”

Sherlock nods.

…

…

…

And it isn’t till 2 years later, that Sherlock sees John walking home with a skip in his step, a dazed smile lingering on his face for what seems like no reason at all. He doesn’t even mind that Sherlock put the severed head by the milk again.

So Sherlock hacks into the cameras again, watches the school day, and finds the exact moment.

It’s at the end of a rugby game. John is sweaty, and grinning, in his black and green striped uniform with black shorts, his hair sticking up all over the place grinning in exhilaration from the wind. He jogs off from the party on the field, over to the stands, to grab some water.

“That was a great try,”

John looks up, swallowing. She’s beautiful. With blonde hair, and a kind face, blue eyes. “Oh, uh, t-thanks.” He smiles at her “You don’t…you don’t go here, do you?”

“No, I go to Bister Academy, a little way off,” she tugs her coat tighter around her, blowing out crystal puffs of air “But you were great to watch, seriously.”

John’s cheeks redden, and he looks down, kicking at the grass bashfully “You don’t uh…you don’t actually know anything about rugby, do you?”

“Not a damn thing.” And they both laugh, “I’m Mary, by the way,” she sticks her hand out, and John shakes it, murmuring his name in return. “Well, I may not know much about rugby, but I know you were good.”

“Well, thank you,” he’s feeling more confident now, and leans his arms over the railing, looking up at her, “So you…you thinking of coming to watch more often?”

“Well I am now-“

“John!” Richard calls his name, jogging over, with Dawn attached to his side. Sherlock smirks when he sees Dawn glance at Mary; irritated. “Oh, right,” he wolf-whistles, and John swears at him, making Mary laugh. “Just to tell you the after party’s at my house, just head over soon. You can bring…” he gestures to Mary, before turning and leaving with Dawn, who keeps looking back over her shoulder.

“So…” John laughs, rubbing the back of his neck “You wanna come to a party with me?”

“Ooh, I don’t know John, this is moving awfully fast,” she says teasingly, jumping over the railing, holding her arm out. John takes it with a smile

“You’re an old-fashioned girl,”

“Why do you think I chose an old-fashioned guy?”

“Oh? So you chose me did you?” He nudges her fondly as they walk across the grass. They look a pair. Her, in an expensive soft coat, John, covered in muck. “I thought you just flirted with the guy who came to get some water.”

“Oh I did. It was you or that other hot guy.”

“Oh really? Can’t think of anyone hotter than me.”

Mary’s laugh makes John rock with happiness, and they join up with the rest of the crowd.

Sherlock leans back in his chair, rather pleased.

…

…

…

Until, of course, a year later.

John comes home a little shaky, happy, but…shaken. He wants to leap into a case, wants a distraction, which Sherlock gives him happily, and then when John is fast asleep, tired from catching a jewel thief. Sherlock logs on. It takes him a while to find John, but he does eventually, in a secluded part of the field behind the equipment block. And then Jakes walks in.

“Hey, mate,” Jake smiles, and John swallows, nodding

“Hey,”

It’s a school mufi-day, and they both look more casual in jeans. John’s wearing a well- fitting jumper, he’s taller now, quite tall, but Jake is taller, and has filled out a bit. “So…you’ve moved on then? You’re over Mary, that was…three months ago? You broke up?”

“Yeah,” John swallows again “Listen, Jake, I…” he runs his hands over his hair “What happened, last night, in the…in the bathroom was…”

“Oh god, John,” Jake whispers, eyes wide “Please don’t say it was a mistake. You can’t tell me that kiss was a mistake-“

“Jeez!” John looked around “God- shut up! Someone’s gonna hear-“

“Why are you so nervous?” Jake whispered, pinning John to the brick wall by his shoulders. It was an assertive move, but his fingers were curled behind John’s shoulders, so they slammed into the wall instead of John’s skin. He ducked his head, brushing noses “It’s okay…”

“I’m not…” John took a deep breath “I’m not gay, Jake-“

“But you are bi.” He whispered, brushing his lips against John’s, and Sherlock wondered if his son might be angered at this invasion of privacy. They’d had arguments about it before. About how Sherlock had no boundary ideas, how he felt everything was up for him to examine. It had always ended the same way, with John relenting, and saying that he accepted his dad. As long as he learnt to keep stuff to himself. “It doesn’t have to be a public thing, John. It could be our thing,” and he kissed him more firmly.

John responded, angling his face upwards gently, moving softly, and slowly, before they pulled away. “I don’t…I don’t know how to do anything…”

Jake’s laugh was as warm as summer “I’d be worried if you did, because I don’t have a bloody clue,”

John smiled, shoulders relaxing slightly, and he angled his face up for another kiss.

…

…

…

“It’s none of your business! You can’t…you don’t have the authority to look into every aspect of my life like that! You can’t spy on me! Your own son! My god!” He threw his hands up into the air “Do you have any idea? Any clue on how angry that makes me?! You give no regard for anyone but yourself, and your bloody stupid experiments and everyone is a lab rat including me! Including your only son! Do you care?! Do you ever care at all?!”

“John, you’re over-reacting-“

“That’s just it!” John screamed, spit spewing out of his mouth “It’s not a fucking overreaction! It’s normal! Everything I’m feeling is normal but you completely discard it because you can’t feel! Because you don’t know and your heart is made of bloody stone! You…you’ve been spying on me, and my friends, and my school life, because I can’t have anything for myself!” his eyes sprang with tears “I hate you.” He whispered, and Sherlock flinched as though struck “I hate you so much.”

And he turned and ran out of the door.

Sherlock stood there, frozen, until Mrs Hudson walked into the room five minutes later. She looked sympathetic and angry “Oh Sherlock, tell me it isn’t true, tell me you didn’t watch his first kiss and then tell everyone what he did wrong.”

Sherlock looked at her helplessly “I didn’t know it would…I didn’t know it would upset him…”

Hours later, John comes home. He smells of perfume, and Sherlock knows he’s been with Dawn, probably going around town and buying stuff. Sherlock’s lying on the sofa, feigning sleep. He cracks them open a little, watching. John dumps his bag on the armchair, and looks at his dad on the sofa. He sighs, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples, before leaving the room, only to come back with a blanket that he drapes over him.

He then proceeds to clean up, picking up wrappers and putting them in the bin, collecting the laundry for the basket, ordering a few books till the place looks good, then he stops by his father, and for a moment, Sherlock thinks he’s been caught, till John kisses his forehead.

“I don’t hate you,” he whispered “I’m sorry I said that, I just…I’m sorry.” He brushed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair “Night dad,” and Sherlock listens to the footsteps going upstairs, and the eventual thump against the mattress.

In the morning, John laughs because Sherlock is standing there with a kite. “I thought boys liked kites.”

John just laughs harder. Later on, while they eat breakfast, John licks his lips “Dad, I hate the way you treat my privacy, but I…I get it.” He half smiles “If you could just learn to keep what you learn to yourself.”

“Of course. I promise. I’m sorry, I love you.”

John nods fondly “I know.”

It’s with that memory that Sherlock turns the computer off, and decides that John should be allowed a few secrets.

Chapter Text

“Daddy?” John tugged on Sherlock’s trousers “Look! Look!”

Sherlock sighed, pulling away from his experiment to look down at John, who was tiny and adorable with his bright blond hair, in a cream jumper that was slightly too big for him, with a dark blue polo shirt underneath. “What?”

“I drew an Otter and a hedgehog!” He grinned, displaying his painting, which was arguably quite good for a four year old. That would explain the streaks of green on John’s grinning cheeks.

Sherlock turned back to his microscope “You’ve spent three hours doing that, in which time you could have done something far more productive with your time. When would those two animals even be together?” And then he was adjusting the magnification, and seemed to have forgotten John was even there.

John looked down at his picture, tears forming in his eyes, bottom lip wavering “Bu-but it’s you and me.” He whispered, looking up, only to see Sherlock absorbed in whatever he was examining. John turned and ran upstairs, bursting into tears in the safety of his bedroom.

Sherlock completely forgot about it, till he headed upstairs at night to check John was asleep. When he saw it on the floor. The painting John had spent hours on, ripped down the middle, Sherlock suddenly realised what he said was…questionable. Oh god damn it, why couldn’t he be normal? He carefully picked it up, heading straight for the kitchen, where he glued it together as best he could, and stuck it up on the fridge. Smiling as he realised that he was supposed to be the otter, and John the hedgehog. After he spotted it, the likeness was truly remarkable.

The next morning, John tiptoed downstairs, ears prickling for signs of his father, who he did not want to face this morning. He peeked his little face around the corner, seeing no sign of Sherlock he ran to the kitchen, climbing onto a stool and grabbing a banana off the kitchen table, turning to run, only to bump into Sherlock’s leg. He stumbled, falling onto his bottom, rubbing his nose, pouting “Daddy,” he whined, momentarily forgetting his sadness. Sherlock lifted him up, kissing his forehead

“What’s that on the fridge, John?”

John wiggled around a little, and gasped. “Our picture!” He beamed, there it was, as though he had never ripped it, all hung up and displayed! He threw his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders “I thought you didn’t like it!” He cried “I thought it wasn’t good enough-“

“Everything you do is good enough.” Sherlock whispers fiercely “I just forgot, I’m always forgetting. I’m proud of everything you draw, or paint, everything.” He picks at John’s cream jumper “Who bought that for you?”

“Grandma,” he beamed, snuggling into Sherlock’s embrace “You made me cry, daddy,”

Sherlock cradled his head, wincing “I hate doing that to you, you should always be happy,”

…

…

…

“Please Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed “You need to relax.”

Sherlock shifted in his seat again, unable to get comfortable, as John giggled away from the middle of Mycroft’s living room, as a large golden retriever bounded around him, licking at John’s face. “How can I relax when that thing is bigger than him?” He snapped, and Mycroft rolled his eyes “When did you even get a dog?”

“I told you, Golden Retrievers are not aggressive, and it’s not my dog. I’m doing a favour for the Prime Minister.”

Sherlock watched as the dog caught hold of John’s jeans, and started hauling him across the floor. John lay back, waving his arms in delight. Sherlock bounded over, but the dog snarled, curling around John protectively, the same way it would to its young. “Oh for goodness sakes! Mycroft! Your freak dog has kidnapped my son!”

Rachel, the dog had been called (and Sherlock hated how it had been given a human name) wrapped around John nice and snug, so all that was visible of his little boy was his face, beaming. Mycroft smiled indulgently “Is she hurting you, John?”

“No, Uncle,” he chimed, laying his cheek against the soft fur “I want a dog, daddy, please,”

“Sorry,” Sherlock whispered, moving to sit cross-legged on the floor “Not enough space in the flat. No one to walk him.”

John pouted, those blue eyes glittering “Hug!” He declared, trying to move his arms up, only to realise he couldn’t. “Hey,” he nipped the dogs ear “Move!” And the dog did, albeit reluctantly, after giving John a lick on the cheek, that had John grinning, and then crawling over to Sherlock.

“There’s my wet looking boy,” Sherlock murmured approvingly, wiping John’s face with his handkerchief. It still gave Sherlock a little thrill whenever John willingly came to him. John stood up, still smaller than Sherlock’s nose, and pressed a wet kiss to his fathers cheek.

“Wanna play snap, daddy?”

“Mycroft doesn’t own cards, he’s boring,”

Mycroft looked disapproving “Don’t bad mouth me,” he murmured, heading towards them, and smiling when John raised his arms up to be carried by his Uncle. Sherlock collected John into his own arms before Mycroft could scoop him up. “I want him to grow up liking his Uncle,”

“I love you, Uncle Mycroft,” John chimed, getting comfortable in Sherlock’s lap “Daddy loves you too, don’t you, daddy?”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s head “Yeah sure. Drowning in the love I feel.”

Rachel ran back over to them, and John spent the next hour petting her contentedly, and Sherlock didn’t have the heart to pull away. He marvelled at John this age, the little bundle of jumpers and blond curls, sparkling blue eyes, emotions all at the top. He wondered what John would have been like as a baby, and felt a pang of regret in his heart. He knew it could have been worse. Four years was nothing, it could have been an entire life he missed out on. He looked down when he realises John was just staring up at him, something akin to adoration on his face.

“You’re perfect, daddy,” he whispered happily, seemingly pleased at this fact. Sherlock’s eyes darted over to Mycroft who was suddenly very invested in the fireplace.

“No, not qui- nobody’s perfect,” he clears his throat “Though I am better than most.”

“Perfect.” John reiterates, “Mrs Hudson thinks so too,” he yawns and seems surprised at his yawn, it’s amusing. “Perfect daddy, mummy said everyone with ‘Holmes’ in their name was perfect.”

“You’re tired, John,” Mycroft murmurs, picking up the little boy “Time for a nap, yes?”

“Can I sleep while you carry me?”

“We have beds upstairs for a reason.” Mycroft sighs, but gets comfortable with John on his side. He waits till his nephew is asleep, before walking over to Sherlock. “What’s wrong now?”

“I don’t want him to ever realise I’m not perfect.”

Mycroft smiled softly “Every child realises that eventually. Remember our father?”

“I was born knowing their faults.” Sherlock says instantly, looking glum. “What if he doesn’t…”

“Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft says sternly “This boy will always love you more than life itself. Now stop pouting and take Rachel for a walk. I’m in no moods for arguments, mush.”

…

…

…

Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night.

Looking around his room, he wondered what had woken him, before hearing the buzzing of the television from the front room. With a sigh, he padded out there, to see John munching away at a chocolate bar, watching the Lion King. The room was dark apart from the glare from the screen, and John was wearing his pyjamas.

“What are you doing up?”

John whirled around, before waving wildly “Hello daddy!”

“John.”

“’m watchin’ Lion King,” he patted the spot next to him on the floor, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting beside his little boy, and pulling him into his lap, taking a small piece of chocolate when it was offered. “Scar and Mufasa are brothers like you and Uncle Mycroft.”

Sherlock frowned at the screen “But Scar doesn’t have a son. Mufasa does.”

“I don’t have a brother.” John looks up thoughtfully “Is it nice? Having a brother?”

Sherlock paled, sweeping his hands over John’s hair “You don’t need a brother. You’ve got me.”

“I don’t want one,” John shakes his head “But I wonder.” He rests his head against Sherlock’s chest “I think I’d rather have a puppy, or a kitten, or a bunny.” He yawns suddenly, startling himself, turning to look up at his father “Hey daddy, I think I’m tired.”

“Do you?” Sherlock grins, amused “Maybe because you woke up in the middle of the night to watch Lion King,” he stands gracefully, cradling John in his arms and walking into his room. “You’ll sleep with me tonight,”

“Yeah?” John asks hopefully, as his head is already hitting the pillow. He cuddles up beside his father, warm and safe. “What happens when we die, daddy?”

Sherlock hesitated; “What do you think happens?”

“We become stars,” he murmured happily, “Twinkle, twinkle…”

Sherlock knows in that moment that he would kill entire armies for this boy, his love is fierce, and knows no bounds. He holds his breath as John traces a gentle finger over his collarbone, before clenching his robe tightly, and finally drifting off, traces of chocolate still smudged around his lips. Sherlock wonders if he’s feeding him enough. He thought he was, but it’s always so hard to tell. He can hear Lion King still playing in the living room, but doesn’t want to move, instead, he wraps his arms tight around his little boy and wonders when life got to be so good.

…

…

…

“He doesn’t look like a Holmes boy,” Matthew frowns, crossing his arms, as John sticks like glue to Mycroft’s leg. Mycroft has a protective hand on the back of his neck. Matthew peers at his attire, John has become fond of jumpers now, and todays one is knitted and cream, with a lovely round neck, glimpsing that smooth young skin. “Doesn’t dress like one, either. What’s his name?”

“John Hamish Adler Holmes.”

Matthew rolls his eyes “At least you’ve continued with the tradition of ridiculous names.” He kneels down suddenly, one swift motion, and John gasps, as his eyes are peered in to. He looks back, and Matthew nods. “Got the right eyes. You mind if I ask him some questions?”

Mycroft sighs, but bites his tongue, nodding. Hand squeezing reassuringly on his neck.

“John,” Matthew begins, clasping his hands “Your mother is dead.”

John simply frowns. “That’s not a question.” He informs politely, and doesn’t see Mycroft’s approving smile.

Matthew nods “Alright, what is most important; power, money, stability?”

John bit his bottom lip “I don’t know,” he said honestly “I’ve never had any of them.” The hand on his neck stiffened, before the thumb ran over his name soothingly.

“Alright, and lastly, you are in a room with three great men-“

“Not this one!” Mycroft snapped “Don’t give him that riddle, he is a child, Matthew!”

Matthew ignored him. “John, you are in a room with three great men. A king, a priest, and a rich man with his gold. Each of the great men bids you to slay the other two. You have the silver sword, tell me, who lives and who dies?”

John scrunched up his nose “Must I kill them? Just because I’ve been told too?”

“The King tells you to do it for he is your lawful ruler, the priest says you must in the name of the Gods, and the rich man offers you all of his gold. They are three powerful men, John-“

“But none as powerful as me.” John blinked, and Mycroft looked down in surprise “For I’m the only one with the sword, and they need me to kill. I’m the most powerful one in the room, and they should surely bend to my will, and my will is not to kill anyone.”

…

…

…

“John is…smarter than I gave him credit for,” Mycroft begins carefully, and Sherlock looks up from the case pictures at the police station.

“What are you doing here?”

“I took John to see Matthew today, to get him correctly put into the deed of the estate and-“

“Are you ever gonna ask before you take him to do things?” Sherlock sighed, but swivelled to give Mycroft his full attention, eyes sparkling eagerly “How did he do?”

Mycroft smiles indulgently “Brilliantly,” he nodded “Guess how he answered the ‘three great men’ riddle?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raise “Matthew asked him the riddle?”

“Indeed.”

“Hm,” Sherlock hums, thinking.

“Well Mycroft,” Matthew hums, crossing his arms “Who lives and who dies?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows drew together, aware of his father’s hand on his shoulder. “Well…I have the sword, so I suppose I would threaten all three. Take the King’s Crown, the Priests blessing and the Rich-mans money, while holding the knife to their throat.”

…

“Sherlock? Any ideas?”

“Probably kill all three,” Sherlock murmured, eyes looking around the room “I mean, Kings are pointless, God doesn’t exist, and the rich man isn’t great, he’s just rich.”

“Just kill them all?”

“Yup.”

“Was he asking about the character of each man?” Sherlock guessed, and Mycroft smiled

“He claimed he was the most powerful man in the room, since he had the sword, and so he decreed no one would die.” Mycroft twirls his umbrella handle around his wrist “I have to admit Sherlock, while I love my nephew more than anything, and while I knew he was clever by his inherited genes, I did not expect the Holmes instinct. He’s very good at making people proud.”

“You wish he was your son, don’t you?” Sherlock grinned, and Mycroft looked off, distant for a moment.

“I think he would turn out very differently if he was.”

“You’re a good Uncle,” Sherlock nods, and then looks a little awkward “And you were a…satisfactory brother.”

“Older brother, guiding you like a beacon into this world-“

“Where’s John now?”

“Presumably eating you out of house and home, that boy has quite the appetite.”

“He’s a growing boy.” Sherlock defended “Besides, you can hardly talk about healthy eating.” And a very pointed look at Mycroft’s normal-sized stomach. Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Did Matthew like him?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock nodded, pleased “Everyone likes him. He’s gonna be popular when he’s older.”

…

…

…

“Dad,” just turned 18 year old John made a face “Do I have to be here?”

Sherlock looked from the glittering gold crowd to his son. John looked fine. In a slick black suit and bow tie, hair slicked and side parted, tall and leanly muscled with broad shoulders and blue eyes. He looked like a Holmes. Sherlock’s suit was better fitting, John hated the tailor, and his own tumbling locks fell into his eyes. “Go find your Uncle, he’ll introduce you to the Russian Secretary of State.”

“I don’t wanna meet the Russian Secretary of State, dad!” He whined “I wanna go watch a film, or play cards with my mates, not have conversations with world leaders!” He thumped his forehead softly against Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock pressed his lips against his hair

“If you really want to go-“

“Ah! If it isn’t my favourite crime-solving duo!” a voice exclaimed, and both men turned to see Prince William. John bowed neatly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the prince seemed delighted. “John Hamish Adler Holmes,” he clasped John’s hand “I am a huge fan of your blog.”

“Thank you so much,” John beamed, ears tinging red “Uh…” he looked over at his dad to see if he was going to speak, but Sherlock seemed in a huff “Sorry, I think he’s upset that no one reads his website.”

“Ah,” Prince William laughed, clapping Sherlock’s shoulder “Your son’s the writer I’m afraid, Mr Holmes. A brilliant one though, but tell me, the one with the boy dead in the shower, how did that one happen?”

Sherlock leapt into a full blown conversation, and John nodded, before sneaking away. He made it to the door when a hand landed on his shoulder. He sighed. “Uncle Mycroft,” he murmured “Lovely party you’re having,”

“Isn’t it?” he drawled, pushing John back so he could look down at him “You look very smart,”

“Mrs Hudson literally forced me into it,” he changed a grin up at his Uncle, and Mycroft seemed to be in a good mood. “Any chance you’ll let me…leave?”

“The President was rather looking forward to meeting you, John. It’s funny, he knows you want an army carrier, calls you the Mighty Army,”

John turned obediently “I’ve haven’t even fought yet.”

“One day,”

…

…

…

“Blimey,” John laughed, as he supported his drunk father up the stairs “I cannot believe you got into a drinking contest with the dictator of Egypt.” His father’s face was flushed, and John dumped him onto the bed, moving him into the recovery position. “No choking on your own vomit.”

“Y-you’re a good…boy.” Sherlock managed, laughing, reaching out to touch John’s face, and John laughed

“I am, aren’t I?”

“Love you,” and then he was snoring. John burst out laughing, before lying back, content to check on his dad all night. “You know what Mighty Army means?” Sherlock called suddenly, startling John, he captured his dads hand

“What does it mean?”

“Watson. You know, the name Watson. If you ever go into hiding or something. John Watson. It’ll be code for us.”

John brushes his fathers hair from his eyes “Sleep, you ridiculous man,”

“’m not ridiculous. I have an international reputation. Do you have an international reputation?”

“Yes, I do have an international reputation.”

“Oh.”

John laughs.

Chapter Text

“So, Jake,” Sherlock nodded, clasping his hands, as Jake shifted a little uncomfortably under the stare. “You and John,” he nodded, and Jake swallowed “You’ve become…you are now both consensually partaking in a relationship, is that correct?”

“Uh…yes?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Listen, Mr H, I thought I was meeting John here to go play rugby,” he gestured to the rugby ball tucked under his arm, and Sherlock rolled his eyes

“Yes, that was a clever lie to get you over here.” He examined Jake thoughtfully, dark blond, nearly brown hair, vivid green eyes, decently built, lean, hints of muscle. “What are you intentions with my son?” Jake blanched, shifting again

“Mr H-“

“What would you like to be when you’re older?”

“A…police detective, I think,”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully at that “And you are aware of John’s plans to go into the army medical field?”

“Well yeah, he’s my best friend, not just my boyfriend.”

“You will not hurt him, Jake.” Sherlock warned, “I think you’re quite aware of how far my powers stretch over his planet and if you hurt him, I will not hesitate to find you and make your life a living hell.” He smiled “But if you want to break up, that’s fine. Just be tact.”

Jake stared. Before clearing his throat “Listen, Mr H, you’ve known me since I was seven years old, I’m not like…Mary, or even Dawn, I just…I don’t think this is anything serious-“ Sherlock examined him curiously. Jake wanted it to be serious. “I think he’s just trying it out, you know? Having a bit of fun. But you know that John’s a great judge of character, you raised him that way,” there was a helpful turn up of his lips “I’ll try to never hurt him.”

Sherlock nodded, pleased. “I believe you, Jake.”

“Oh bloody hell!” John snapped from the doorway to the flat “Dad! What are you doing?!”

Sherlock watched Jake.

The way the boy brightened when John entered the room, how he sat up and took notice, and his emerald eyes twinkled, how he smiled just at the sight of his son. “Jake, he’s not harassing you or anything, right?” Sherlock hid his own smile at the way Jake buzzed when John said his name

“Nah, it’s fine mate, I was just waiting for you. Wanna play?” He held up the rugby ball, and John arched an eyebrow at his father, who was now suddenly preoccupied with a book.

“Yeah sure, let me just grab my shoes,” he gestured to his current school shoes, before jogging upstairs, and Sherlock watched Jake watch after him longingly. All in all, he approved.

…

…

…

Jake laughed breathlessly, dropping onto the grass beside John, who was lying there, catching his own breath, covered in sweat and mud, hands resting on his stomach, looking up at the darkening blue sky. The park was private and empty now. They were too far to be seen. “Tell me you’ll be Captain next term,” Jake grinned, tucking one arm beneath his head as he looked up at the rolling clouds.

John reached across and grabbed his free hand, lacing their fingers “When are you gonna buy that I was already Captain once, and I don’t wanna be Captain again?”

Jake laughed, bringing their laced hands up to kiss John’s knuckles. When he turned his head, those piercing blue eyes were watching him carefully. “What?”

“What was my dad doing?”

“Nothing John,” he grinned, pushing onto his side to see John more clearly “Nothing I swear, just looking out for you. It’s nice.”

John grimaced “I don’t want him scaring you off,”

“Please.”

John beamed, tilting his head up hopefully, and how could Jake possibly resist? He moved forward obediently, pushing their lips together, softly, sweetly. He raised one hand to stoke through John’s hair, fingers tightening in the blond strands, as John’s lips parted, and they both moaned filthily.

When a gentle humming was heard.

They pulled away, and John signed. “Sorry, that’s my Uncle’s drone.”

Jake blanched “What?”

“Yeah, drone,” he looked around “Probably in the trees or something.” He laughed at the look on Jake’s face “Relax, it’s nothing really, just my Uncle making sure I’m okay, he does that if I’ve been out a certain amount of time.”

“Christ John,” he rubbed his forehead “How do you deal with that?”

“Used to it.” He murmured, before grinning “He’ll leave after this,” and he kissed Jake again. But this time it was different, it was sloppier and clumsier, but Jake’s skin sizzled as though it was on fire, and his eyes slid shut in ecstasy, and sure enough the drone buzzed away in an impression of Mycroft’s huff, and John pulled away, flushed. “There!” He beamed triumphantly, before leaning forward and sweetly nipping at Jake’s bottom lip “Wanna come back to ours for tea?”

Jake nodded. He couldn’t imagine being out of John’s company right now.

…

…

…

“Dad,” John’s exasperated sigh filled the flat “Why is there a dead pig in the hallway?”

“It’s obvious!” Sherlock called back from the kitchen as the two boys headed inside, Jake waved at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes, turning to meet John’s raised eyebrows “I was fighting an Arabian King, John, dead pigs are all the rage.” He then pulled an eyeball out of a beaker, examining it in the lighting.

“Right,” John headed over to the fridge, bending over to see down at the bottom shelves “What do you fancy, Jake?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to interpret the fact that Jake was too busy ogling John’s behind to give an answer. He slammed the beaker down, making Jake startle, and clear his throat guiltily. “An-anything’s good,” his eyes flickered to Sherlock’s, only to bolt back down to the floor when Sherlock was looking right at him.

“Pizza?”

“Sounds good.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth as John had to bend down further, to lift the pizza out of the bottom draw, before spinning around, and sliding it into the oven, and turning up the heat. “Okay-“ he paused when he noticed how still the other two were being “You guys okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Jake managed, rubbing the back of his neck “I just need to use the bathroom,” and he ran to the upstairs one.

“Jake was staring at your behind.” Sherlock said instantly, and John stared at him. “You know…you were all…bending over and he was…looking.”

John laughed a little “What?”

“Yeah, just…so you know-“

“Dad,” John stepped forward, hesitating “You do…you do like Jake, don’t you?” His voice told Sherlock everything he needed to know. John never stayed friends with anyone Sherlock didn't like, yet alone dated.

Sherlock crumpled “Of course I do, I think…out of everyone, he’s the…he’s the best, he’s good to you.” He brushed his hair from his forehead “But…I think he wants to have sex with you.”

John hugged his dad tightly, laughing “We’re so not talking about that.”

“You haven’t yet though, right?”

“No, dad.”

“Will you tell me once you have?”

“Probably not.”

“Right, of course. That makes sense.”

John looked at Sherlock curiously, before rolling his eyes “That was you at the park today, wasn’t it? Dad! Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you, but John, use protection.”

John grinned “Afraid he might get me pregnant?”

Sherlock hummed, surprised “So you’re the one who would get pregnant. That means you’re the one taking it right-“

“Shut up!”

…

…

…

MANY YEARS LATER

“I expect you to write your own vows.”

Jake blinked “But John said I didn’t have to-“

“I want you to show how much you love my son by writing your own vows, Jake.” Sherlock snapped “God, can’t you see that John is obviously writing his own? He’s just being nice to you.” But even Sherlock couldn’t keep the smile off his face for too long “You’re making him very happy, Jake. And for that, you have earned an eternal pardon.”

Jake smiled “I love him, Mr H.”

“The proposal was…” Sherlock looked forlorn “I’d never seen him so happy.”

“You know what he said right after saying yes?” Jake murmured, leaning forward “He said ‘I can’t wait to tell my dad’. I’m not replacing you, Mr H, I’m helping you make him happy. But you will always be the most important person in his life.”

“That’s good to know,” he said sincerely, before people out his notebook and flipping to a random page “So according to this, you retweet a girl called Rebecca’s tweets every day, what’s that about?”

“Rebecca’s my cousin, Mr H.”

“Ah…well, everything’s fine, then.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock logs on.

“Fuck!” Tom roars, green eyes and dark hair, he kicks at the bench in the locker room “If that’s what we’re like against Barnaby’s, there’s no way we’re gonna get into the finals!”

John tugs off his sweat soaked shirt, tossing it into the hamper and running his fingers through his hair “Calm down, Tom,” he soothes “We’ll play better next time.”

Sherlock watches Jake, how his eyes flutter along John’s torso. Muscled, and young, and lean. Tom just grunts “No John!” he whines “If Richard had come to the bloody practice sessions, he would have known to pass back to Jake!” Jake looks away guiltily, just in case anyone catches him gawking.

“How many times, Tom?” Richard snarled from where he was stuffing clothes into his bag “I was spending time with my girlfriend, you remember Dawn, right?” John’s attention is gripped for a moment by Dawn.

Tom’s glare is full of hatred, and John sees it immediately, moving to step between them “Guys,” he raises his hands “Let’s not. Come on, Tom, you can’t just blame Richard, I wasn’t playing my best either.” His eyes burn blue and honest, but Tom just shoves away, opening his locker.

“Don’t try to make this your fault, John. You’ve never missed a single practice, and if Richard’s so darn adamant to see Dawn, bring her to practise. She wouldn’t mind-“

“How boring would that be for her? To just watch us run around?” Richard snapped “But obviously, you wouldn’t know anything about that, because you’ve never had a girlfri-“ Richard’s being slammed into the lockers, and Jake and John rush forward, Jake pulling Tom backwards, as John stands in front of him.

“Calm down!” John cries “Come on, Tom, Richard’s just being a dick.” John elbows Richard hard, and the taller boy sighs;

“Yeah, fine,” he hangs his head “I’m sorry, Tom, alright?” Tom relaxes marginally, before Richard continues “Sorry that you’re gonna die alone-“

Tom swings.

But John is pushing Richard to the side, and the punch smashes into the side of his face, and he’s sent tumbling into the lockers, where his head clips against one of the locks with a horrifying crack.

Sherlock can’t move. He tries to calm himself down. John is upstairs, asleep. This must have happened sometime in the last two days, but Sherlock hadn’t seen any bruising. He swears at himself when he realises he never really looked. John had seemed fine though, laughing at Sherlock’s experiment. So he figures John just rolled it off his shoulder.

“Oh fuck- John-“

“Shit.” Richard, catches John as he stumbles, there’s blood from a split lip and a bruise already blossoming, a small nick from where the locker caught above his eyebrow. Nothing to leave a mark. Richard manoeuvres an arm over his shoulders, “Christ, Johnny? You okay mate-“

“Idiot!” Jake shoves Tom backwards with an unimaginable anger “You see what you’ve done?”

Tom looks winded, helpless, guilty and apologetic, and regretful enough for Sherlock to consider forgiving him. He doesn’t, of course. But he considers it.

…

…

…

“You don’t have to do this, Dawn,” John murmured, sitting on the sofa in Dawn’s house, which was only a few minutes away from the rugby pitch, he leaned against the wall, as Dawn tended to his eyebrow, dabbing it with a water soaked cotton ball, clearing up the blood. Sherlock watched sadly as John traced Dawn’s features with his eyes. It was sweet, how John liked her. Dawn’s cheeks were flushed, as though she enjoyed being this physically close to John. It makes Sherlock bite his bottom lip, because they’d be good together.

“Of course I do, I’m always fixing Richard’s stupid mistakes,” she murmurs

“It wasn’t Richard’s fault-“

“Fine then, Tom-“

“It wasn’t Tom’s fault.”

Dawn pulls back, a small smile on her face as she picks up some anti-septic cream, dabbing it onto her finger “John, you are not blaming yourself for this.”

“I got between them. I should’ve let Tom beat the hell out of Richard.”

Dawn rolled her eyes, standing between John’s legs, and John’s breathing hitches a little. He’s still shirtless, wearing his rugby shorts and boots, but goose bumps are visible along his arms. Sherlock knows that if he took his pulse, it would be fast. “This might sting,” Dawn whispers, dabbing some onto the cut. John winces, but that’s all. His lip looks fine now, or it mustn’t hurt, because when he tilts his head up, there’s a moment when Dawn looks down at them.

And then leans forward.

Sherlock watches, as John turns away last minute, showing an incredible amount of self-restraint, muttering something under his breath. The audio isn’t clear, but Sherlock can bet he muttered ‘Richard’.

Dawn clears her throat, dabbing cream onto the cut “Tom and Richard feel terrible, anyway,” she murmured with a grin “They’re both promising to do your homework for a year.”

“I want to be a doctor, they’re not coming near my homework.” John laughs “Thank you Dawn, seriously,” he grasps her wrist “You didn’t have to do all this,”

Jack enters the room then, his body tense with jealousy at the intimate embrace, and clears his throat “You feeling better, John?” he asks, walking forward, and Dawn steps back. John grins lopsidedly

“I’m fine, Jake, don’t worry,” he stands up “Good thing you were there, Tom was gonna break his nose,” he pats Jake’s shoulder, and doesn’t see how Jake seems enlightened by the touch (but Sherlock does) “Thanks mate, do you know where my shirt is?”

…

…

…

Sherlock fast forwards to the next day.

It’s the game.

The important rugby game that they’ve been practising for, and Sherlock is a little bit in awe because he’s never really seen John play before. It’s exhilarating to watch, John’s the fly-half, and he’s good. Fast, and Sherlock jumps whenever they slam into each other. It’s dark as they play, dark and windy, but there’s a huge number of people watching. Sherlock realises rugby is highly commended in Mulberry. He deleted that information.

When half-time comes around, John’s team are behind. They gather into a large group, They turn to the captain, some boy named Luke. “What do we do?” Tom pants, they’re all sweat slicked “Our push-backs aren’t working,”

“Just revert to tactic one,” Lucas orders, but the team hesitates, and 11 boys turn to John, who blinks in surprise

“Guys…” John hesitates, shooting Lucas an apologetic look, but Lucas just sighs

“No, come on John,” he sighs “Just tell us what you’d do?”

John explains how number 5 on the other team favours his right side, and comes up with a new plan, and the others nod enthusiastically, rushing off to get water. John lingers behind with Lucas, “Sorry mate,” he tries “I didn’t mean to-“

“You should be Captain,” Lucas smiles, throwing an arm over John’s shoulder “You were great last year.”

John scores a point. Or a try. Sherlock doesn’t know what they’re called, all he knows is that John leaps over the line and slams into the ground with the ball tucked firmly into his body. It’s the winning try, the time whistle blows, and all of John’s team mates crowd around him, and they’re all hugging, pressing muck and dirt and sweat into each other and laughing gaily. Sherlock sees Jake press a lingering hug to John’s side. And then the team are rushing to the stands, being hugged by parents for getting into the next league of the competition.

And Sherlock stiffens when he realises that John has no one to be hugged by now.

He doesn’t bother heading to the stands, instead sips from his bottle of water, and looks out at everyone cheering, or some looking gutted. Sherlock stands up, laptop still in hand, and wonders why the hell he wasn’t down there! He sits down uselessly, watching John in dismay. He wipes the sweat from his face, sitting down, and then looking up when the headmaster comes over.

“Marvellous game, Johnathon.” Mr Hiymes nods, and John smiles

“Thank you, Sir. But it’s just John-“

“You’ll be nominated for Captain at next terms game.”

“An offer which I will reject, Sir.” He says politely “I’ve been Captain once already- twice actually, and it’s not fair.”

Mr Hiymes chuckles “Your team know what they want.” His eyes flickered up to the stands “Your father coming to pick you up?”

“Uh, no sir,” John stood, swinging his bag over his shoulder “I’m just gonna walk.”

Mr Hiymes frowned in displeasure “It’s dark, John. Be careful, you’ve got a torch?”

He takes out his phone “My phone’s got a torch,” he smiles “Don’t worry, Sir.”

“How long will the walk be?”

“Only 20 minutes, 10 if I run.” He joked, Mr Hiymes seemed troubled, but said nothing more, and Sherlock watched John leave.

It was a few hours ago today that John had come home, and now he was asleep upstairs.

“Hey dad, there are fingers in the toaster.”

“Don’t touch them.” Sherlock murmured, bent over a set of test tubes. He listened to the sound of boots on the floor. “How’d your rugby game go?”

“We won,” John laughed patting his father’s back “I’m gonna go to bed, you need anything?”

“Aren’t I supposed to ask you that?”

John rolled his eyes “Night dad.”

Sherlock wondered why he hadn’t been there. Why Mycroft hadn’t been there. Well, the answer was simple enough, neither of them understood sport, but still, for John. He shut the laptop down, hovering uncertainly, he wanted John to have someone to look to in the stands. Someone to hug him when he won, or when he lost.

…

…

…

Running. God, running was absolutely brilliant, the feeling of the cool wind on his face, the sun sparkling on his face, as he ran and leapt onto Richard’s back, kissing his cheek in ecstasy and laughing, as everyone huddled around for a large group hug. “We won!!” John cheered along with everyone else, as they were all clapped on the back, he relished the triumph until people started heading over to the stands. He looked up at them, to see the parents and siblings who’d come to witness. And froze.

Because that definitely had to be his dad.

Sitting on the end of on the stand, watching him.

He stood, slightly mollified, before moving forward, and then running to the bottom of the stands, where Sherlock met him. “Dad,” he breathed “What are you-“

“That was uh…” Sherlock nodded “Good point you scored.”

John beamed, and Sherlock frowned at him

“Your face is getting sun burnt, lucky for you I brought some sun cream.” And before John knew what hit him, Sherlock was rubbing cream onto his face. John yanked away, wiping it off before someone saw

“Dad!”

“I know John, it’s great to see me.”

“You are a ridiculous human being.”

“Then you are my ridiculous son.” And he ruffled John’s hair, wiping more cream onto his nose. “You’ll thank me when you’re being serenaded for having great skin.”

John hugged him tightly, before smearing sun cream onto Sherlock’s face. “You’ll thank me.” He grinned to the glare. “So, what made you come to this one?”

Sherlock struggled for a moment, before shrugging “You know…nothing else to do.”

John winces a little, looking down at his boots

Sherlock catches his shoulder “I didn’t mean that!” He yelled, and John stared at him with wide eyes, before looking around to see if anyone else was watching, but they weren’t. “I mean…” Sherlock groaned “I just didn’t want you to get lonely.”

“At a rugby match?”

“…yeah.”

John laughed, head tipping back “Come on dad, I’ll introduce you to the others on the team. Don’t be rude.”

“Please, I’m never rude. I might say something to Tom though, for hitting you like.”

John paused, eyebrow arching “You deduced all that?”

Sherlock looked away “Of course.”

“Dad…”

“I may have…seen it happen.”

“You worry about me.” John boasted, and Sherlock ruffled his hair

“Didn’t have to be a genius to figure that one out.”

“I guess you do make it blindingly obvious.”

Sherlock looked affronted; “I do not!”

…

…

…

“Why don’t you want to be Captain?”

“Someone else’s go,” John murmured, taking another forkful of pasta into his mouth. Sherlock frowned, leaning back from the kitchen counter, using his hands to stop himself from tipping backwards.

“But you know that whoever becomes Captain will still listen to whatever you have to say. You’re giving them a meaningless title, you should be the Captain, they all want you to be Captain.”

“Maybe I don’t like being in charge,” John shrugged “I don’t know. If they’re gonna listen to me anyway, why bother being Captain?”

“You don’t like bossing people about.” Sherlock realised, setting his fork down “If you’re Captain, you boss people about, but if you’re not Captain, they always ask for your opinion, so technically you’re not bossing anyone. If you are Captain, they won’t ask, it’ll be expected that you tell them.” He hummed thoughtfully “Don’t know why you wouldn’t like bossing people about, it’s my favourite thing.”

“And we can all see how well-liked you are.”

“You don’t need friends,” Sherlock waved his hand “You’ve got me.”

John smiled genuinely “Yeah. I do. Always.”

“Always.”

Chapter Text

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

Sherlock woke up, the screams like a fire alarm and he tore out of bed, flinging open the door, ready to save John from Moriarty, or Arabian killers, or- John was standing right outside his door, screaming as though his life depended on it, still in his blue pyjamas, blanket draped over his shoulder, blond curls sticking up every which way. “My god, John, what’s wrong?” he murmured, crouching down, as John buried into his chest, arms tight around his neck.

“Monsters! Monsters under my bed, I saw them!”

Sherlock blinked. Lifting John into his arms, he kissed his temple “What?”

“Monsters, daddy,” John repeated, sniffling “Under my bed.”

“Right well…that’s…” Sherlock wondered if he should call Mrs Hudson up, before he started walking towards John’s room.

John started screaming again, hitting Sherlock’s shoulders and wriggling “NO! No daddy! Don’t go inside, monsters! Monsters!” He yelled into Sherlock’s ear, and the consulting detective winced, pushing open the door to John’s room slowly. Nothing. It all seemed perfectly normal. He flicked on the light, and John looked around. His voice went small; “But I saw them, Daddy,” he whispered. Sherlock rolled his eyes, setting John on the bed, and looking underneath it.

“Nothing but floorboards, John,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes “If you ever get scared, just turn on the light. You can’t go waking me up or causing a fuss, alright?”

John’s bottom lip quivered, and he pulled back his bed covering to crawl back inside, he lay his head on the pillow obediently. He wasn’t screaming now, he was dead silent.

“John?”

“Yes Daddy,” he whispered

Sherlock nodded, whirling on his heel, and leaving.

…

…

…

The floor boards creaked.

John drew his knees to his chest, hugging them tight, looking around. Something scuttled underneath his bed and he whimpered softly. A shadow moved along the wall, and John leapt up. He grabbed the blanket and ran out of his room and down the stairs, tiptoeing past his fathers room he ran into the living room, and picked up Sherlock’s mobile.

Something in the living room scratched against the wood.

John swallowed thickly, before deciding that his bed was safer than down here. So with Sherlock’s phone in hand, he sprinted back to his room, and closed his door, sitting right in the middle of his bed, looking around the darkness. He turned on the phone, and biting his bottom lip, tried to make sense of it. Call. He wanted to call someone. He managed to get onto the contact list, and his heart leapt hopefully when he saw Mycroft’s name. He pressed it, and then held it to his ear as his father had often done.

“For gods sake, what is it now, Sherlock?” Came Mycroft’s harsh, sleep ruffled voice.

“Uncle Mycroft?” John whispered

Mycroft’s voice was instantly softer “John? What’s wrong?”

“Can you come get me, please?” He whispered, shivering “I think there’s a monster in my room and daddy said not to make a fuss when he’s sleeping. It scratches the floor, and I see shadows under the bed.”

There was silence for a long moment.

“Please, Uncle Mycroft?” John pleaded “I won’t tell anyone, and you don’t have to stay with me, I won’t make any nois-“

“John,” Mycroft murmured softly “Someone’s going to knock on your bedroom window in a moment, okay? I want you to open your window, and let them carry you into a car. You’ll be brought here, okay?”

John looked to the window gleefully “Thank you, Uncle Mycroft,” he whispered happily “I love you!”

Mycroft chuckled “I love you too, John.”

A few minutes later, John was wrapped snugly in Mycroft’s arms in the King-sized bed. John yawned, nose scrunching up as he buried himself into Mycroft’s arms. “You hold me like daddy used too,” he murmured quietly.

Mycroft frowned “Used too?”

“Past few months he’s been busy. Long case. A 9.”

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully, kissing John’s forehead “No matter. Let’s sleep now, no monsters here.”

“Even if there were you could get ‘em.”

Mycroft chuckled.

…

…

…

Sherlock sat up as his phone started ringing. Groaning, he picked it up, “What?” He snapped

“Just wanted to let you know that John is perfectly safe.” Came Mycroft’s drawl.

Sherlock frowned “What?”

“He’s at my house. Called me last night because of ‘monsters’ in his bedroom. I do believe that if you check on your rat experiment, the two rats are missing, yes?” Sherlock opened the closet, and looked down at the empty cage.

“Oh.”

“Exactly. He’s fine now, we’re eating breakfast and…” Mycroft’s voice drifted away from the phone “What’s this programme called, John? Oh yes. We’re watching Bob the Builder.”

Sherlock felt a surge of jealousy soar through him “Put him on the phone.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t want to cause a fuss.”

The tall man placed a hand on the wall haltingly, teeth gritting together “I didn’t mean it like that. This case is…It’s the most interesting case I’ve had for a while. I need a rested head-“

“Of course.”

Sherlock closed his eyes “Pass the phone over, Mycroft,” he said gently

“Daddy?”

“John,” Sherlock breathed “How are you? The monsters were r-“

“Rats, Uncle told me.” John said, his voice was muffled. His mouth was full of food. Sherlock felt a pang. It was Saturday morning, and John wasn’t sat cushioned into his arms eating cereal, he was snuggled with Mycroft on the sofa, mouth full of…what sounded like bacon. John giggled suddenly, and Sherlock’s fingers curled with jealousy. Mycroft was tickling him. “U-Uncle!” John laughed, the phone got jostled, until it was picked up again “Yes Daddy?”

“John, would you like me to come get you, or-“

“We’re watching Bob the Builder!” John whined “I wanna stay and watch it. Uncle Mycroft doesn’t get annoyed at it like you did.”

Sherlock knew it shouldn’t hurt as much as it did. “John, you’re not upset with me, are you?”

“No daddy,” came the curious voice “Why would I be upset?”

“I should have…listened to you, I should have let you sleep in my bed-“

“Don’t worry, daddy,” came John’s cheery voice “Uncle holds me like you used too. Whenever I get scared, I’ll just go to him-“

“No!” Sherlock cried “No, John, I want you to come to me. Always come to me. I can hold you too. Just wait! I’m coming over!” And Sherlock was tugging his coat on over his dressing gown, falling into a taxi (where the driver looked at him as though he was insane) and not 15 minutes later, Sherlock was walking into his older brothers living room, where John was sitting on Mycroft’s lap, giggling at the television while Mycroft scanned over some papers, pressing gentle, occasional kisses to John’s temple.

“So, you’re sunken to stealing my son?”

They both turned, and John beamed and waved “Hiya Daddy!”

Sherlock strode forward, hoisting John up out of Mycroft’s arms, holding him in the way that only Sherlock was allowed. On his hip, arms clung around his neck. “John,” he rumbled possessively, nosing at John’s hair animalistically, like a lion scenting its young. “I’m sorry,”

John snuggled into Sherlock’s arms “Why?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft stood up, a small smirk on his face, as eh held his hands out for John “John and I were watching TV,”

“I can watch TV with him.” Sherlock snapped, turning away, John wrapped up in his embrace.

John laughed “Daddy! Are you wearing your jimjams? You’re funny!”

Sherlock preened at the compliment, lowering his head obediently as John went to play with his curls, twirling Sherlock’s hair between his tiny fingers. “I’m taking him home, Mycroft. I could have you arrested for kidnapping my son.”

Mycroft looked amused; “I’d like to see you try.” He leaned over, placing a firm hand on John’s head, and kissing his forehead “Bye John,”

John reached a hand towards Mycroft, fingers curling around his thumb “Why don’t you come with us, Uncle?”

“He’s very busy,” Sherlock grumbled “Aren’t you, Mycroft?”

Mycroft sighed, shooting John a grin “Yes. Very busy.”

…

…

…

“I’m your favourite, aren’t I, John?”

John blinked, shooting Sherlock a lop-sided smile as Sherlock tied up his shoelaces “Huh?”

“Your favourite person in the world, who’s that?”

John didn’t even need to think about it “You, daddy!”

Sherlock smiled “Yeah?”

“Mmhm, you’re the bestest and my most favouritest person in the whole world! And then Uncle Mycroft, and then Mrs Hudson, and then Grandma and Grandpa, and then Jake! I like Molly too.”

Sherlock stepped back, picking up John’s coat and sliding it onto his little boys shoulders “But I’m your favourite?”

“Yes, daddy.”

Sherlock beamed, “Good. Because you’re my favourite too, you know? My favourite in the world.”

John’s ears tinged red with pleasure, as he fell into familiar step beside his father, holding hands as they headed out into the busy streets “I also like Uncle Greg. But I love you.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand.

…

…

…

It takes Sherlock a long time.

Months of work, scouring through CIA networks, and drones, and satellite images, to get any footage of Irene and John in Afghanisatan from the past four years. When he finds something. Only 15 minutes long, and not very clear, but he sees Irene, carrying a bundle, just a baby, and holding him in the garden over the mountain tops. She kisses his head, and is whispering something, and Sherlock watches it, striken, on repeat.

What if he had been there? Would he be standing beside Irene? Would he be holding John? Would they both stare out at the mountains and kiss?

He felt a sudden rush of longing as he replayed the clip again.

“Daddy?” John appeared in the doorway, yawning “Aren’t ya gonna tuck me in?”

Sherlock nodded “Of course I am,” his voice broke a little “Of course I am.”

Chapter Text

John, four years old and adorable, pushed the empty test tube off the desk, and giggled helplessly when it smashed into the ground. Sherlock looked up from the sound, stepping away from his microscope. “John!” He admonished sharply, “Don’t touch my test tubes! And keep away from his glass!” he looked around for a broom, when another crash onto the floor, and John was giggling away. “John!” He yelled “Stop that right now-“

A whole rack of test tubes fall to the ground, acid spilling onto the wooden floorboards, and John laughing and clapping in sheer delight. Blond curls bouncing on his head as he ran upstairs.

Sherlock glowered and sighed, cleaning it all up.

But it seemed John’s misbehaviour would continue. He threw Sherlock’s microscope slides out of the window, shoved a case filed through the shredder, and put Sherlock’s phone in the blender.

But it was when Sherlock came in from outside, setting down all his slides, when he saw John holding the microscope. Sherlock’s very expensive, very unique microscope, that he snapped. “John Hamish Watson-Holmes!” He growled, eyes alight with anger “You put that down right now, right now! Do you understand me?!”

John dropped it, and it smashed, and before Sherlock knew what was happening, he was crossing the room, and backhanding his four year old brutally across the face.

John cried out, stumbled backwards and fell with a thud.

And time seemed to slow.

The tall brunette’s hand burned with the force, and John’s skin had been so soft against his hand, and John- his baby, his little baby boy sucked in a breath, almost confused, before lifting a hand and gently touching his cheek crying at the pain that shot through him. His left cheek bright red and how hard had he hit him?

“John,” Sherlock breathed, falling to his knees “John-“

John wailed. And when Sherlock edged towards him John scuffled under the coffee table, sobbing and holding his face.

“John please,” Sherlock tried again, his own eyes stinging “I’m so sorry- please, oh god, I didn’t mean to! Please! John-“ his heart was heavy and poisoned by guilt, but John just kept crying. Sherlock tried for hours, before sweeping up all the mess of the day, and sitting on the steps, staring into nothing.

And then Mycroft came in.

He examined Sherlock, the tight withdrawn features and the paleness of his brothers face, and then he heard it; the gentle hiccup of a childs sobs from under the table, and Mycroft’s eyes widened in horror “You hit him?” he breathed, and Sherlock choked:

“I didn’t mean too- oh god Mycroft, I didn’t-“

Mycroft pushed past his brother after hearing the what had actually happened, walking up into the flat, where John was sat in the middle of the sofa, digging into a pot full of Nutella, and he beamed when Mycroft came in, a large patch of red and blue stained his cheek, and Mycroft knew Sherlock had put way too much force into that hit. Too much for it to have been premeditated. “Uncle Mycroft!” John giggled, reaching a chocolate stained hand out, but then Sherlock appeared, and John shrank into the sofa, shaking.

“John.” Sherlock whispered brokenly, and Mycroft took a deep breath, picking John up and settling him on his hip

“We need to take him to hospital, Sherlock. This is a large amount of bruising.”

“John…” Sherlock stepped forward and John started bawling again

“Don’t daddy! Don’t!”

Mycroft walked past Sherlock.

The doctors frowned, unhappy with the situation, but Mycroft did all he could to explain how thieves had broken in, and backhanded the boy. They prescribed a deep soothing cream, but warned the bruising might take longer to fade. “Uncle Mycroft,” John whispered, clutching Mycroft’s tie in his little fist

“Yes, John?” Mycroft whispered, pressing a kiss to John’s head, and soft shampoo smelling hair

“I don’t wanna go back to daddy.” He sniffled unhappily “He scares me. Can we go back to your house?”

Mycroft nodded “Of course we can.”

Sherlock, of course, was less happy about the situation. Banging on Mycroft’s door in the middle of the night “I need to explain it to him! This isn’t fair! You’re just jealous! Well John is my son, and you can’t have him! Damn it, let me in Mycroft! I’ll call the police!” At Mycroft's unimpressed look, all the energy drained out of Sherlock “Mycroft please, I just have to explain-“

“And you will. In the morning.” And Mycroft padded back to bed, where John snuggled into his chest, breathing light and easy.

Morning came, and John was as excitable as ever, and when sat down at a fancy dining table, he frowned “What is this?” he asked, as Mycroft set the dish before him

“Eggs. You like eggs.”

“Eggs?” he cocked his head “Doesn’t look like eggs.”

Mycroft sighed, “Your father only makes boiled, doesn’t he? Well these are fried eggs, John. I assure you, they’re much better.”

John poked the yolk, and kicked his feet delightedly.

…

…

…

John stepped carefully into 221B Baker street, and tiptoed up the stairs. Sherlock had been given strict instruction by Mycroft to just sit on the sofa, and not move. “Daddy,” John eyed him as he stepped into the apartment.

Sherlock smiled warmly at him “Hello, John,” he murmured, itching to haul his boy up and hug him, but refraining.

John looked around as though he had been away for a long time, before stepping further inside. He rubbed his shoulder “Sorry ‘bout your mic’scope. And tubes. And slides.”

Sherlock licked his lips, eyes trained on the dark bruise on John’s cheek “That’s alright, buddy. I missed you yesterday.”

John nodded “Missed you too.” He stepped further forward, looking at him curiously “You hit me, daddy.” He said quietly, and Sherlock’s heart nearly stopped beating “And you’re only s’pose to hit bad guys. Do you…Am I a bad guy cuz I broke your things?” he was so meek, and tiny.

“No, no, John,” Sherlock said earnestly “I was the bad guy for hitting you, it was a mistake, and I will never ever do it again. Daddy wasn’t thinking, and he was being very foolish.”

John half smiled “Like that time you thought Hobbits lived on earth, not middle Earth?”

Sherlock nodded, “Yeah, yeah just like that.”

John clambered onto Sherlock’s lap, hauling himself up, and Sherlock wraps his arms around him, and presses desperate kisses to John’s temple. “Daddy,” John makes a face as his father lavishes him with wet kisses.

Mycroft arrives later, and introduces the idea of a naughty step at the bottom of the stairs for if John misbehaves (as rare as it is) so Sherlock never gets the opportunity to get so worked up again.

…

…

…

“Ouch, that’s quite the bruise,” Greg frowns, and Sherlock tights his hold on John possessively, but John wriggles in Sherlock’s grip, eager to get to ‘Uncle Greg’, and the silver haired man lifts him up, examining it, before turning to Sherlock with a frown “Did he get hit?”

Sherlock nods stiffly, and Greg realises

“Oh, right- look Sherlock, don’t worry about it. Parents make mistakes- even you,” John bops Greg’s nose, and the detective rolls his eyes “Plus you seem to have made up with him. He’ll forget all about it in a few months. Besides, got a case for you. Someone’s been stealing money from the bank.”

“Dull.”

“I figured you might want to spent some time with your boy. So no dead bodies.”

“Why? He’ll forget all about it in a few months.” Sherlock parroted back stubbornly

Greg rolled his eyes, rubbing John’s back, as the little blond laughed in delight at Greg’s tie.

Sherlock didn’t mind the bank case, actually. It had its share of ups and downs and adrenaline rushes without the need of any murder. Plus, it was nice to have John sat on the table, smudging all the important witness statements with his Nutella stained fingers. He interrupted constantly, in that Holmes type way.

“Why can’t they just share, daddy?” he asked, scooping some Nutella out of jar, and licking it out of his hands. Sherlock pulled the tissues out of his pocket, and set about wiping John’s face

“People don’t like sharing, John.”

John cocked his head, eyes sparkling “Russian Premier.” He states eventually, and Sherlock blinks in confusion. Sally leans over as well

“Russian Premier?” she blinks in confusion, and he nods

“On the telly!” He points, and Sherlock sighs

“No deductions to make, John? Any insights into the outcome of this case?”

“You’ll catch ‘em daddy,” he said supportively “You always do.”

Sherlock beamed, and Sally made a sound of disgust.

…

…

…

Sherlock wakes up one morning, and finds John sat on his bed, just watching him, and munching on a piece of toast. Sherlock blinks sleepily, sunlight making his pupils ache “How’s my little genius?” he murmured, and John waves at him, he looks relatively clear of Nutella this morning, and Sherlock hopes the obsession has passed “Who made you toast?”

“Gran’ma,” he answers, and Sherlock sighs

“She’s here?”

“Mmhm.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you were sleepin’,” he says and finishes his toast, and he snuggles beside Sherlock, happy and content, before the doors bursts open and Violet is there, tutting.

“Sherlock, get dressed. It’s Easter, we’re going to church. “

Sherlock frowns. Frowns because something’s not quite right…he’d been dreading seeing his mother for a while now and he can’t remember why- he looks at John’s face, and the angelic features, are soft and happy, and there’s no bruise. Oh thank god. The realisation makes him weak “Sure. Give me a moment to get dressed.”

Violet blinks, as though surprised at the lack of fight, and reaches a hand out for John “Come on John, sweetheart, let’s get you all dressed.”

John pouts, but bops Sherlock’s nose and scurries away.

Sherlock finally forgives himself.