Chapter Text
221 Baker Street was peaceful tonight. Mrs Hudson ate dinner with Watson and Holmes, stayed to watch the soaps with John and then went home to her flat downstairs. Sherlock was content in his armchair, quietly relishing in the company with a book perched in his lap. He’d been reserved all evening, a sign that regression was rearing its head, although he was yet to request a session with either John or his caregivers.
Once Mrs Hudson had left for the night, John pulled out his laptop, clacking away as he did, the TV providing background noise. He could almost say he was surprised that Sherlock hadn’t complained about the noise; maybe their discussion on violins at the crack of dawn had given him some perspective.
The men were the picture of domesticity, needing only a crackling fire and a snoozing dog on the rug to complete the look. Both seemed to greatly appreciate the peace – even Sherlock occasionally needed a break from the mayhem and havoc he wreaked upon the city of London. Perhaps Mycroft was suspicious about the lack of activity, though he had not mentioned it during his weekly visit, not that he would. He still outright denied any form of surveillance.
And then, there was ruckus downstairs, the jingling of keys and the high-pitched lilt of Mrs Hudson greeting a man. A gruff voice too low to detect, and then scampering footsteps up the seventeen stairs to 221B. The pair shared a glance, identifying the guest before he even stepped foot in the room.
“A case?” Sherlock asked, eyeing the detective inspector.
“No, Sherlock, he’s not here for that.” John countered as he made his own deductions. Greg’s chest was rising and falling, not quite in a pant, but faster than normal. Heart rate elevated, judging by the alarm written on his face.
Sherlock reassessed the man, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He’d learned to accept the humility of not always having the answer. “Then tell me. Why is he here?”
“He’s distressed, Sherlock.” John stood to approach Lestrade, pupils blown black, eyelids widened. “What’s wrong?”
“I just-god, sorry, I shouldn’t have come.” He made no move to leave, the same desperate exasperation on his face that came with a difficult case.
“Greg, relax, sit down. Do you want a cuppa?” Watson fell into doctor mode, ready to help hand and foot to ease the stressed male. Greg gave him a curt smile, which was answer enough for John to head towards the kitchen, flicking the kettle on as he gathered mugs.
Sherlock shuffled forward, hands dropping between his thighs as he watched Lestrade. “What’s the matter?”
“Just been on a shit case, up to my fucking eyes in paperwork and Myc won’t be home for hours yet. I just-I don’t know.” He trailed off hopelessly.
“Felt lonely? Mycroft’s house is awfully big when you’re by yourself, I can imagine.” John sympathised between clinks of the spoon against the mug.
Greg nodded, once, the smile turning uneasy. “You could say that, yeah. And, well,”
The detective leaned forward, curiosity piqued. “Well?”
“Sherlock, give him time.” John chastised as he stepped around the room to hand each man a mug, saving one for himself.
“Thanks John. I just, god I don’t know why it’s so hard to say! Fucking hell.” The DI scrubbed a calloused palm over his face, and when he pulled away, his skin was blotchy.
Sherlock dropped his voice, the tone reserved for comforting victims and Mrs Hudson. “Lestrade, do you need to regress?”
“What? No, no, I have no desire for that. Not that there’s anything…I’ll just shut up.” Greg pretended to dig a hole with a shovel. His laugh was choppy and sharp, so unlike his chipper sniggers.
“Do you need us to regress?” The way his eyes flitted from Sherlock’s face and the floor, body stiffening, the tips of his ears and expanse of his chest flushed told the men what they needed to know.
“I just need to take my mind off things for a while, I’d like a bit of company. If you wouldn’t mind?” Greg glanced at each male with sheepish, doe eyes.
“I’ve been itching to be little all day, you couldn’t have timed it better.” John didn’t know if he was lying to consolidate the man, but he sounded sincere, even excited. Greg puffed a sigh of relief, hands rubbing over the tops of his thighs.
“This is going to sound really bizarre coming from me, but you really shouldn’t be embarrassed. Don’t be afraid to ask. You and Mycroft need taking care of too sometimes.” When Lestrade seemed calmer, the doctor began to speak again. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to go all the way, but I’m more than happy to be little.”
Sherlock snorted. “I’ll be going deep, don’t you worry. You’ll have your hands full in no time.”
As if a switch was flipped, the detective inspector stood up, body exuding authority, and pointed to Sherlock’s bedroom. “Right then boys, let’s get you into some jimjams.”
Holmes’ eyes glossed over almost immediately, thumb itching to be in his mouth. “Not sleepin’!”
Greg laughed. “No sweetheart, it’s not bedtime yet.” He took the little’s hand to guide him down the hallway. John followed along, taking the time spent gushing over Lock to attempt to regress.
“Nappy or pull-up?” Daddy addressed his sons. They both chose the former, laid down obediently to be stripped, wiped and changed. Due to limited supplies and fear of Mrs Hudson finding them, pyjamas were restricted to soft cotton loungewear, matching nonetheless.
The next step involved a pan and some milk, which was a challenging task with a six foot man wrapped around his torso. John climbed onto a kitchen chair to watch, sat on his haunches. He was getting closer to Lock’s age with each ticking minute, yet still unable to delve properly into headspace. He’d get there, he was sure. It just took a little extra help. Greg could clearly read minds, as he swivelled to place a comforting hand on the boy’s crown, bending to kiss his forehead.
“Bottle or sippy cup Jawn?” The question was loaded, and the answer would give Greg a rough idea what age category his son currently fell into. Watson contemplated, leaning up in silent request for another kiss.
“Bottle.” He decided with a firm nod.
Lock sensed an atmosphere, and wriggled to get a view of his brother. “Jawn okay?”
“Yes love, he just needs a minute to be little.”
“Jawn big?” Lock was confused – his brother looked tiny huddled in the chair, but his face still had the same expressions as big boy John.
Greg bounced him. “Not quite spud.” He wasn’t sure how to explain the line between headspaces, especially to someone who found it so easy to cross between the two, nor did he think Lock was old enough to understand. His reply seemed satisfactory, though, as the toddler hummed, popped his thumb into his mouth and lay his head down on the reassuring shoulder.
When the bottles were ready, daddy shooed them to the couch far away from the hot milk and hotter stove, checking that the protective cover was slotted back into place. He’d rather not spend the night in A&E with an upset, man-sized tot. It took a bit of brain work to find the best position to situate in, and Greg had to laugh at the jumble of limbs. His lap was filled with the boys’ heads, their bodies flung either side of the couch as he sat in the middle. It was more efficient than he’d first believed, however, as he could conveniently feed the littles simultaneously and watch each one suckle at the nibs of their bottles.
“Was that good?” Daddy asked, the bottles discarded on the coffee table. His boys curled into his chest, warm and cosy after their milk. Jawn nodded, headspace finally established, whereas Lock simply hummed with a mouthful of silicone which clacked softly after each suck.
Lestrade was much more relaxed now, felt the tension bleeding from his bones, muscles unclenching after hours of stress-induced constriction. He was glad he’d made the trip here, so that he could spend the evening with two of the three people he loved most. If only Mycroft could be here too. He banished that thought from his mind, hunting for the TV remote to play something for the boys.
“Nnh!” Lock screeched with furrowed brows.
Greg bit down a laugh. “What love?”
“Nnh!” He pointed at the bookshelf and batted away the remote.
“I don’t understand what you want.” Lock huffed, exasperated, and pointed harder at the bookshelf. “You want to read a book?”
“Wait! I know!” Jawn chirped, darting down the hallway. The daddy and son listened to distant rustling and banging before the tot returned triumphant. He brandished a book high in the air that Lock recognised instantly, judging by the face-splitting grin on his face.
Lestrade lifted his arm for the tot to slot back under, snuggled right into his chest, head turned to examine the pictures. It was a book unfamiliar to the DI yet no less enjoyable, and he found himself sinking further into the couch. Jawn was chatty, pointing out different images and giggling at the funny parts, whereas his younger brother remained nonverbal, only providing the occasional hum.
Greg almost didn’t want to finish the book, as it meant he’d have to leave his spot; therefore, he read slowly, allowing the frequent interruptions from his eldest son. He could see why this was the immediate choice – a whimsical story about a world of animals and their wacky lives, filled with colour and love and adventure. It reminded the detective inspector of his boys, vowing to add a copy to their growing collection in the manor.
Alas, Jawn’s attention could not be captured forever, and he eventually slipped away as the hardcover overturned. A reminder to remain in Greg’s sight had the toddler groaning, because he had to lug his toys into the living room whilst daddy sat there cuddling Lock, who didn’t appear to want to move anytime soon. Holmes was alert and active, albeit reserved in comparison to his regular self, content to bask in his father’s coddling.
“Where’s my Locky gone? There he is!” Squeaky, breathy giggles escaped from behind plastic and fleece, muffled as his face was once again concealed by the soft blankie. “Oh no, he’s disappeared! Jawn, can you find Locky?”
“There daddy!” Jawn sniggered, pointing to curled toes.
“Hmm, I wonder if these are ticklish…” Lock gurgled, tucking his feet in closer, but not fast enough, as a hand swiped a sole, fingers dragged across the sensitive surface. “Did you hear that?”
Daddy shushed, yet the tinkling laughter remained. “I think I hear a Locky!” He beckoned Jawn forward, who snuck over and bent in close.
The blanket was snatched away, revealing a red-faced baby who screeched in surprise before exploding into laughter. He laughed so hard, in fact, his dummy was lost along the way, a few snorts emanating from his nose with the force of his cachinnation.
“Goodness me, I thought we’d lost you forever Locky!”
“Here da’.” Lock reached up to squish his father’s cheeks, who nipped at his fingers in response.
The distinct and ever familiar scent of ammonia filled Greg’s nostrils – he was rather shocked the nappy had been soiled so soon, yet he supposed all the milk triggered his bladder. Now was as good a time as any to get his boys cleaned up, though with the heft of the sagging around the little detective’s hips, he was certain there would be another change before the night was through.
Remarkably, the boys lay still and allowed Greg to lift their legs and hips and adjust their bodies during the process. Jawn was not nearly as wet, but there was a tiny sodden patch, and he was guilty as charged. Daddy doubted it was down to wanting to be on their best behaviour and more to do with wanting more playtime before bed; he wasn’t going to complain.
“Daddy, Locky tickly!”
Greg raised an eyebrow. “Is he now?”
“Yeah, watch!” As stated, the little detective was a writhing, heaving mess in seconds, desperately begging for relief that would not come. Jawn’s sinister grin and evil cackle would be frightening had he not been stark naked.
Daddy to the rescue! He attacked Jawn from behind, where he was defenceless and vulnerable to slippery fingers against his bum and thighs, until he too was unfit for words between gasps of air. The father found mercy, however, and released his boy to suck in oxygen like it was going out of fashion, but not before pressing a sloppy kiss to Lock’s bare sole.
“Uh oh.” Jawn sang, crestfallen. Greg’s heart dropped.
“What?”
Jawn’s eyes twinkled. “I gunna get ya!”
That was the only warning provided before the daddy had his arms full of toddler. He was not able to keep balance, though he did manage to tip onto his back with the boy held away from the floor. That all changed when he was accosted by those same sneaky appendages that had gotten Lock previously, and Greg was trapped. Lock had no qualms with his brother now, it seemed, as he was eager – if not enthusiastic – to join in the battle, jumping onto Greg’s torso to tickle his neck. Each time the man pushed the tots away for air, they crawled right back onto his body, keeping him pinioned for their whims.
Eventually, he clasped an opportunity via Lock’s bare tummy, which he snagged and planted several noisy raspberries on. His son dissolved into giggles, flailing fruitlessly to escape until his brother pulled him away to safety. That was the end of their tickle fight – for now – as they collapsed in a huddle on the floor, one of daddy’s arms around each boy. Lock found the rise and fall of daddy’s chest as he panted hilarious, wiggling closer to press his head against the battering heart.
“I hot.” Jawn yawned, and he wasn’t lying. A thin sheen of sweat covered them all, despite the various sets of undress.
Greg hummed, patting Lock’s bum absently. “Fancy a bath?”
“Yeah! Please daddy!”
Greg fiddled with the taps and the plug so that the water would be perfect for his boys. “Right, which one of you is going first?”
“No!” Lock screeched, crossing his arms with a displeased pout.
“You don’t want a bath?” Lock squawked and crawled to his brother’s side where he clung to the tot. “Oh, you want to bath together?”
They nodded. “There isn’t enough space for you to both fit.”
“We can!” Jawn said proudly – they had probably bathed together in the past, but Lestrade couldn’t quite believe two grown men could squeeze into a tub that small effectively.
Indeed they could. With a bit of manoeuvring, a tangle of limbs slotted into the ceramic with a slosh of water, and the smile on their faces was enough to make Greg’s heart warm. They were incredibly good, lifting arms up to be washed and sharing the rubber ducks – that daddy didn’t even bother washing their hair. He couldn’t start tears, not with how well the evening was going, no matter how much he wanted to turn Lock’s curls into a shampoo mohawk.
Rinsed off, the boys huddled in their poncho towels on the bathmat, as Lestrade drained the bath and set out two onesies for his babies. Judging by the frequency of Lock’s yawns, he’d be asleep in no time at all, so it was best to rush getting him prepped for bed to avoid waking him.
Once the boys were dressed and padded, they had a lovely cuddle in bed together, daddy seated in the middle, a tot either side. He stroked his arms up and down their spines, fingertips grazing the soft fleece that had the little detective snoring in minutes. He hadn’t even asked for a dummy. Jawn and Greg sat in the quiet for a while longer, basking in the peace, listening to Lock’s breathing.
“Daddy?” Came a tiny voice.
“Yes, sweetheart?” Daddy replied, scratching at the blond doctor’s scalp.
Jawn sighed. “I’m not tired yet.”
“Neither am I love, should we go and sit on the couch?” Though it was worded as a suggestion, daddy fully intended on coaxing his son out of the room lest he disturb the sleeping little. Thankfully, Jawn nodded, scooting off the bed to make room for Greg to follow suit, gingerly readjusting Lock’s arms to wind around a pillow.
“Come on then ducky, let’s go have a cuddle.”