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Jawn and Lock were sat at the kitchen table making all kinds of racket as they waited for breakfast to be made. Jawn was happily playing by himself, pushing a fire engine across the table, adding his own noises between the button-induced wails of the toy. “Daddy?”
“Hm?” Greg sealed the cereal box shut to pop back in the cupboard.
“What’s wrong with Locky?” Lestrade halted what he was doing and whirled around in a panic.
Lock was rocking in his seat, a rapid back and forth sway that threatened to displace the equilibrium of the chair. He had his legs drawn to his chest, knees clamped over his ears, eyes scrunched shut so tight it looked painful. One hand chewed on raw fingertips, leaving slobber trails down his shins and wrists, whilst the other bashed against his forehead over and over. Jawn watched with widened eyes - he’d never seen this behaviour before, and the distressing noises Lock made frightened him.
“Lock? Lock can you hear me? Look up for me please.” The boy did not respond to any verbal cues, only shrieking deafeningly when Greg placed a hand on his shoulder. Each attempt to prevent the self harm was rebounded by a swat of blindly flailing limbs.
“Daddy what’s wrong?” Jawn’s pitch heightened in terrified anxiety as Lock sobbed, pulling at his hair and refusing all physical contact.
“Mycroft!” Greg yelled, feeling rather panicked himself. His boyfriend burst through the door, calm demeanour betrayed by the flash of concern in his irises. “Is he having a tantrum? He won’t let me touch him!”
“This isn’t a tantrum. Let me deal with it. Give us some space please.” Mycroft’s tone was sharp, commanding, and Greg seized Jawn by the wrist to tug the crying boy from the room, who kept looking back to see what was causing Lock’s tears.
Rather than approach and deteriorate the predicament, Mycroft pulled the chair out beside Lock, allowing some distance, and sat down in silence. He sent a quick text to Greg, heard the phone ding in the next room and then the sounds of two pairs of footsteps heading upstairs. Now that the ground floor of the house was in silence, Lock had ceased the self harm, sniffling as he withdrew from his knees. The older Holmes waited patiently, body language relaxed and inviting, and when Lock crawled into his lap wordlessly, he remained quiet.
A momentary disturbance elicited a tiny whimper, but it was only Greg dropping off Mycroft’s requested items as noiselessly as possible before retreating. First, the little boy was huddled into a slightly weighted blanket, the best swaddle Mycroft could incur with their awkward positioning. Next, noise reduction ear plugs were slotted deep into his ear canals; it was a marvel to watch the tension drain from the boy’s body as everything silenced. A dummy came afterwards, held between teeth for a while as Lock accustomed to the sensation.
“There now, is that better?” Lock pressed his cheek to Mycroft’s chest, seeking out his steady heartbeat. The thumps, paired with the ear plugs, drowned out any other distractions.
His body melded into his sibling’s, who set a gentle pace, rocking him the way he liked. They’d done this countless times in their youth, when Mycroft had been sure Sherlock had autism, and now it only confirmed it in his mind. Without an official diagnosis, however, Holmes would do his best to soothe and take inspiration from the research he’d performed. Mycroft didn’t need to instruct verbally for Lock to follow his breathing – a long inhale in via the nose, held for five seconds, then released through his mouth. The action was repeated until Lock’s heart no longer hammered and his lungs didn’t burn anymore.
“Hey there little one.” Mycroft whispered when Lock lifted his head up to blink at him.
“Nnh.” He mumbled around his dummy. It took a few seconds for Mycroft to register what he was trying to convey. When he realised, his face lightened, arms repositioned, and with a great heave he got to his feet. It was a juggle with Lock refusing to budge, blanket adding additional weight to the load, although the little did his best to aid by wrapping his limbs around Mycroft’s frame.
The softest pyjamas Lock owned hastily replaced his tear soaked loungewear, damp nappy swapped for a thicker one that always seemed to calm him. Snuggled in sensory heaven, Mycroft was able to properly swaddle him in a fleece blanket, chuckling at the sight of his burrito brother. The human log was slugged over to the glider chair where Lottie and Redbeard waited to provide some lovely fluffy cuddles. It was much easier for Mycroft to rock them, a smoother motion settling a listless Lock right back down again. With his toys to his chest, brother enveloping him warmly, Lock cast his eyes to the ceiling. It was pitch black bar his ocean light – waves danced across the room in blues, greens and reds. Lock was hypnotised, his blinks sluggish, body deadweight.
Mycroft remained silent until he was sure his sibling was completely calm and the meltdown was over with. He kept his touches light and his voice hushed. “In your own time, can you tell me what happened?”
Lock grunted at first, and that was the only response provided for several minutes. After a bit of wriggling, Mycroft slipped the dummy from his mouth, hooked over his pinky finger to allow Lock to speak freely. “Don’t know papa. All got too much.”
“What did love?” Mycroft swallowed his joy at being addressed as papa, for it likely meant Lock was still feeling vulnerable.
Lock shrugged. “Jawn toy noisy. My ears hurted when daddy an’ Jawn spoke, like alarm in my head. An’ my skin was glass, an’ my eyes hurted an’ nothin’ felt right.” He frowned as he reminisced.
“That sounds awful, sweet boy. No wonder you were so upset.” Mycroft pressed a ghost of a kiss to his temple.
“Uhuh. Wanted to wash my insides out.” He admitted quietly. Mycroft had never heard him use such a description before.
“Is that why you were hurting yourself?”
“Yeah, I make pain to stop other icky pain.” Lock answered. It didn’t entirely make sense, until Mycroft realised what he was trying to say. Lock would rather produce his own painful stimuli, one he could control, than be tortured by sensory overload. It was a common trait during a meltdown. Mycroft only wished he’d been there sooner, to prevent it before it even occurred.
“I’m so sorry darling. It must’ve been horrible.”
“Yeah,” Lock sighed, boneless. “But papa make it all better.”
“I did?” Holmes would disagree, he’d been working on instinct, unlikely to admit to anyone – except for Greg, maybe – that he’d been just as scared when he barged into the kitchen.
Lock nodded vigorously, jutting out his chin for his dummy. Once replaced, he nestled back into his sibling, closed his eyes, and relaxed. “Love you papa.”
Mycroft smiled, pressing more chaste kisses to his scalp now that he wasn’t so sensitive. “I love you more, brother mine.”