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“You’ve got to admit, he does have a point.”
They were sitting in their respective chairs, relaxing for the night, both exhausted though for different reasons. The door to what had previously been John’s room had been closed for the night, argument over bedtime surprisingly short for once.
Sherlock gave John a glare for his comment, looking thoroughly affronted. “He most certainly hasn’t! Honestly, how can you even think that?
“Because I see the evidence,” John replied, trying and failing to hide his smile behind his mug of tea.
“Evidence! As if there was.” It should be impossible for the affronted look to deepen but the detective managed it. “I am not a – a cat! The very idea!”
The silence was punctuated by the muffled sound of John attempting to conceal his chuckles.
“What are you laughing about?”
“You!” John laughed, foregoing suppressing his mirth. “You just proved his point, looking for all the world like a miffed cat that does not want to admit it’s miffed. I swear, if you did have ears, they’d be pressed against your skull.”
This time, the silence was decidedly more sullen, though John wasn’t perturbed. He was used to it, after all, from both Sherlock and from the bundle of joy sleeping upstairs.
“Oh, come off it!” he said when the silence persisted. “It’s nothing to be miffed about. I was one, too, if you remember.”
“You were not the one with the mane.” The last word was almost spat out and Sherlock’s nose was wrinkled together in that special look of distaste he had.
No I got the starring role as the one with the studded collar and the arm warmers. “No, but then I don’t strut around – you do, Sherlock, at crime scenes you do.” John put down his mug and turned to face his partner.
“And how would he know about that?” Sherlock shot back, hackles rising further. “As I recall, you were the one to ban taking him –“
“Yes, because it’s not something a child should see,” the doctor interrupted with an exasperated air that showed they had had this particular discussion a few times before, “no matter how fascinated they seem. But he’s your son, you big oaf, of course he knows you strut. If you were home more, you’d have seen him trying to imitate you.”
John started to smile at the memories of their son walking back and forth in his room upstairs, trying to imitate his father as best he was able to. John had stayed hidden as he’d watched the child let loose his own deductions; there was no skull, no John and no NSY but he made do with several of his teddies. It was incredible sweet.
His smile faded again as he took in Sherlock’s face; it had paled beyond its usual meagre colour and the expression on it, while not obvious to anyone who wasn’t very familiar with it, displayed both hurt, distress and a hint of anger.
“...Very clever, John.” The words were quiet, deceptively so, but no less sharp for that.
“That wasn’t meant as an accusation and you know it,” the doctor said gently. He got up and stepped over to stand in front of his still seated partner where he leant down to grasp one bony hand. “It’s just a fact. I don’t begrudge you your cases at all apart from not being able to go with you all the time anymore and neither does he. To him, you are the most interesting dad ever and he loves you deeply.” As do I went unspoken but was communicated by the squeeze of the hand which Sherlock returned.
“Then why a cat?”
“Oh, come here, you.” John pulled at the hand in his and for once, Sherlock let himself be hauled upright and into an embrace without any fuss. Well, almost without fuss.
“I just don’t –“ the detective began, resting his chin on the blonde’s head.
John smiled into the other man’s shoulder. “He’s a child,” he said, pulling back to look Sherlock in the eye. “He’s just seen something fascinating that has a few elements in it he knows very well, is it that surprising that he’d cast you in the most memorable role?”
There was silence again but this time it wasn’t easy to work out whether it was a positive or a negative silence; the contemplative expression gave nothing away.
“If it’s any consolation, he cast Mycroft as the fat toff of a tomcat that eats at all the fancy clubs.” John was rather amused by the image of Mycroft strutting around with an absurdly big spoon instead of his customary umbrella.
It seemed to perk Sherlock up somewhat as well. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Hm, well.” Sherlock stared into the middle distance.
“Well?” John asked, knowing he was in danger of losing his partner to his Mind Palace.
“Perhaps the idea has some merit after all.”
They shared a laugh together and after a rather thorough snog settled down again, this time with John firmly placed on top of Sherlock in the chair.