Chapter Text
Few things disturbed John Watson. Life experiences had taught him about the world, people and cultures so contrasting to his own. Living with Sherlock Holmes for years had taught him more than he'd learned in the rest of his lifetime, and yet, there will still things that man could do to surprise the doctor.
Case in point: he'd arrived at the flat from work, bone-tired and quite prepared to order a takeaway and pass out on the couch. He knew Sherlock was home; Mrs Hudson had told him so on the stairs, but it was terribly quiet. Had the consulting detective not been in bored mode for the past week, he would have trotted off his to bedroom, no questions asked. A silent, vexed Holmes was a worrying prospect; a force to be reckoned with.
Tentative steps revealed an empty living room. Scientific equipment bustled on the kitchen table, but upon closer inspection, it looked as though it hadn't been used. That in itself drew the hairs on the back of John's neck skyward. Sherlock could be sleeping, though a rare phenomenon.
Nonetheless, Watson was a doctor at heart, and he couldn't leave until he knew both the whereabouts and state of his flatmate. It was little use calling for him - scarce times he received a response, and his bedroom door was ajar, as if waiting for John to enter. So the man did. What he found was…entirely unexpected. Of all the things he could have imagined, thousands of scenarios both relieving and horrifying, this was not among them. Holmes seemed just as shocked as he, darting around and staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes.
The stare was piercing.
"Are you okay?" John asked. He couldn't help but drag his eyes down Sherlock's body. The boy shivered under the scrutiny. Lock, then.
"Get out!" He screeched without bite. Sherlock Holmes was embarrassed.
"That's a pretty dress." It was not, if John was being honest. The fabric was thin and cheap, shapeless, the kind a teacher would wear in the summer months. It hung from Sherlock's frame limply and did nothing to compliment his alabaster skin. There was little else John could think to say in the moment, his brain taking its sweet time to process the sight.
"Not. Only one I could find." A tiny voice dissented. John relaxed his posture automatically, and as if on autopilot, strode further into the room.
"You look lovely, sweetheart. I didn't know you liked to wear dresses.
"Jahn angry?" Lock twisted the hem of his dress anxiously. He was close to tears.
John transformed into doctor mode. "No. no. of course not darling. I just wasn't expecting it, that's all."
"Not hate me?" Lock sniffled, blinking away blurry vision. His dress was beyond rumpled, so John tugged it from his grasp.
"Hate you? I could never hate my Locky, you're too precious! Then where would I get all my cuddles from?" Lock was inundated with kisses and a squeezing hug, shrieking as his feet left the floor. When he was set down, the child dug inside his wardrobe for a moment, though John could not see for what. Once he'd found what he was looking for, he sat down on his padded rump, cross legged, and tilted his head up to face the doctor.
"Help, please?" Lock held up two bows attached to hair clips. Mismatched to his dress, John assumed they too were an impulse buy. He was hesitant to comply - Sherlock, and his little sides, meant the world to him. He loved him, and would accept any way he might be, both in personality and in sexuality.
However, John had been raised by a Watson, a stiff-lipped, mouthy individual who was not afraid to share his opinions – rarely politically correct – with anyone who would listen. That was frequently his children. John had grown up to be afraid of femininity and expressing emotions, that he was a man, and he should act like one. Whatever that meant. Gay men were poofters, lesbians dykes, and it took years, if not a decade, aided immensely by his service in the army, to become comfortable with others different to himself.
Even now, with age regression a major part of his life, having kissed men, performed sexual acts with various genders, plus having two dads as caregivers, there was the occasional gut-wrenching feeling that it was supposed to feel wrong. It didn't, but his biological father's words were ingrained in his subconscious, appearing at the worst of times. Now was one of these times.
Really, he had no issue with Sherlock wearing a dress, little or not. If that was a part of him, John would embrace it. Yet the tingling sensation in his stomach that he shouldn't be so blasé, that he should chastise the detective for not conforming to gender stereotypes was present and intense. He must have looked like a deer in the headlights, because Lock looked down sadly and pulled his outstretched hand back to his chest.
John swallowed his pride and his father's uneducated maunder, grounded himself, and crouched. "What hairstyle would you like, sweetheart?" Lock snapped his head up to look at him.
"Really?" John grinned. Fuck homophobia. His father wouldn't win this time. "One there, one there. Please.”
"Such lovely manners, lovey. I've never done this before, mind, but if it falls out I can redo it." John rambled. This, he could do. Focus on taking care of the little boy, his smiles, making him giggle. The clack of the clip sliding into place sounded painful, but only John winced. Lock was chuffed.
"I see? I see please?" Lock was spun on his heel, the dress billowed out around him, to face the mirror. He bounded up to the glass, inspecting John's shoddy handiwork. His hair was parted in the middle, the two front sections of forelocks gathered up and pinned back by the bows. John expected him to demand a restyle. Lock beamed, and suddenly, with a forced exhale, John's arms were filled with a honey-scented tot. "Thank you Jahn.”
"You look gorgeous, kiddo." John racked his brains for several more gender neutral pet names he could utilise until he and their daddies could sit down and have a proper conversation. The last thing he wanted to do was upset his little brother.