Chapter Text
Had Mrs Hudson been there, Greg thought, maybe it wouldn’t have all gone so wrong. He held onto Lock tightly, shushing him as they paced the living room floor whilst Mycroft hovered nervously. He’d never seen his partner worried outside of a handful of occasions, and he knew it took all of his will not to send out a surveillance team to look for John.
“What the actual fuck is your problem?” John exclaimed, storming up the stairs. He wouldn’t yell so loud had the landlady been in, but she wasn’t, and he was pissed.
Sherlock followed behind but skirted past to access the living room. “John, I was merely getting a rapid response from the-”
“I don’t care what you were trying to do, you idiot! You can’t treat people like objects, especially not when they’re traumatised! We’ve been through this.” The doctor scrubbed at his face, but even deep breaths were aimless in calming him down. He was just too furious.
Sherlock slumped in his armchair, delving deep into his mind palace to tune out John’s needless ranting. When that didn’t work, his stomps too loud to ignore, Holmes took the book he’d left on the side table and lobbed it right at Watson’s head. It bounced off with a satisfying thud, stunning John into a brief moment of silence.
“Did you just throw a book at me?” The voice was dangerously calm.
Sherlock either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. “Shut up.”
“Shut up? Are you being seri-” This time a pen flew at him, and John barely had time to duck as it clattered on the floor and skidded to a stop. Sherlock was pacing now, fingers steepled, eyebrows furrowed.
He was no longer paying attention, so John gathered the two items from the floor, aimed, and threw them back with an – admittedly – unnecessary amount of force. “What the fuck, John?”
“Yeah, you’re right. What the fuck?” Sherlock scrutinised him, scanning as deductions likely whirled around his head. John wanted to punch him.
Sherlock must’ve picked up on it, because suddenly John was inches away from the man, who glowered at him with tight set jaw, no words spoken. John squared his shoulders, shifting into military rest, but Sherlock took it as a threat; two large hands pushed at his chest, sending him stumbling back a foot.
“What is your problem?” John yelled, pushing him back petulantly.
Sherlock appeared alarmed, as if he didn’t quite know how to deescalate the situation. “Why are you so angry in the first place? You didn’t even know those people, why does it matter how I get my information?”
John scoffed. “You’re something else.” He said with a shake of his head. Sherlock pushed off from the desk, where he’d landed, and shoved John from his vicinity.
“Piss off Watson. Go find someone else to cry morals to.” Sherlock moved to skirt around him, quite prepared to bump shoulders on the way past, but John wasn’t done with him.
John ducked low, aiming his shoulder for Sherlock’s stomach, and used the man’s momentum to send him off balance, knocked onto the seat of his pants in seconds. It was a rugby tackle, followed by a straddle as John dove for the detective with ire fuelling his hands. The conversation devolved into growls and grunts, and the men grappled on the area rug like schoolchildren. John was certain he even felt teeth at one point, his own gritted to the point of jaw ache.
Sherlock managed to knee John dangerously close to his groin, giving him a precious pocket of space to rise from the coffee table where he’d landed. He was bruised, undoubtedly; despite it being no worse than what he’d endure on a taxing case, it hurt more knowing who the perpetrator was. His back scorched, but he shoved the sensation aside to yank John up by the arm and push him as far away as he could without sending him to the floor.
“Fuck you.” John spat, wiping spittle and the tiniest hint of blood from his lips. Sherlock was stunned, frankly, watching with widened eyes and a stiff stance, ready to defend himself if necessary. Instead, Watson grabbed his discarded jacket and was out the front door moments later, the slam echoing around the empty room.
Sherlock had never understood the meaning behind silence being deafening. It never made sense. It did now. He stood there, chest heaving, paralysed. They’d had their fair share of fights, but none physical, and he wondered if he’d gone too far this time. He banished all thoughts that pertained John walking out forever, eyeing the window to glimpse the back of John marching down the street out of sight.
Unsure what to do, Holmes uncharacteristically tidied up for want of something to busy idle hands. He righted furniture and gathered toppled items, scooping what had fallen from the desk to the floor up into a neat pile. Half an hour later, it was cleaner than when he had left it this morning, but now he had no idea what to do. Normally he’d ask John for advice, but John wasn’t here, and, worryingly, might never return.
Rain pattering the window broke him from his reverie. Sherlock found himself stood ramrod straight in the centre of the sitting room, staring at John’s armchair as if it held the answers. He blinked, fingers itching to reach into his pocket, not for a cigarette. He gave in.
John. SH
John? SH
Where are you? SH
Are you safe? SH
I’m sorry. SH
There was no reply, although John read the messages immediately. In a final bid to ease his aching conscience, Sherlock dialled his number. Several rings blared, and Sherlock could almost picture John’s frown as he debated what to do. Come on, pick up. It rang out, went to voicemail. Sherlock tried again. This time, within seconds, his call was declined, and after that he could no longer get past voicemail.
Fretting for John’s safety, upset encouraging his mind to regress, Sherlock paced the floor. After a moment, he paused, staring at his phone as he weighed his options. It was still busy out, he was guaranteed to find a taxi within minutes. Belstaff in hand, Holmes clumped down the stairs out into the street. He knew what to do.
“Can you hear that?” Lestrade asked, raising a finger to shush his partner. They listened for a moment in silence, until a series of frantic knocks echoed into the kitchen. The men shared a look of alarm.
“The boys!”
When Mycroft flung the door open, he was almost taken to his knees by the weight of a six foot man diving at his torso. Tiny sobs were muffled into his fleece overall, and fingers clung to the back of the fabric for dear life. Greg stepped out but there was no sign of John anywhere. Had Lock come alone?
“Hey hey, deep breaths love, you’re alright. What’s happened, hm?” Mycroft rubbed small circles across his back, rocking them on their feet until Lock pulled away.
The rough material of his belstaff rubbed at his eyes, causing further blotches to break out across his skin. “F-fight!”
Mycroft tugged the sleeve away and wiped the tears with the pads of his thumbs. “With who?”
“J-Ja-Jahn!” Lock whimpered, he was in such a state his breath was shuddering, and he shook like a leaf in a hurricane.
“You had a fight with John?” Lock nodded in a frenzy. The daddies glanced at each other before entering the house and ensuring the front door was securely shut. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know! No-not answering his ph-phone!” He cried as more tears spilled down his ruddy cheeks.
“Okay, alright love, come on. Let’s go get some pjs on and daddy will try calling John, okay?” Lock nodded with a great big sniffle, taking Mycroft’s hand to be led up the stairs.
Even little, Lock had the extraordinary ability to pretend things were okay when it was far from the truth. He kept his sleeves down, partially feigning distress with them pulled over his hands and downright refused to be carried. His fathers put it down to sensory overload – an upset toddler wouldn’t wish to be held when they were hot with tears. Holmes knew he was guilty, the fight had been his fault, and he deserved every bruise and cut John had cast upon him; he was almost surprised it had taken so long for him to snap, if he was honest.
“John, where the hell are you?” Lestrade had a vague idea based on background noise alone.
There was a shuffle, a creak of a door and then a slight crackle of what Greg assumed was a gust of wind. “I’m at the pub.”
The noise was muted now, and John seemed to be pacing. “You’re safe?”
“I’m safe, only having a pint or two.” He paused. “I’m guessing Sherlock is with you?”
“He’s little at the minute, said you had a fight? Are you alright?” Greg kept the worry from his tone – John was not his to coddle.
Watson sighed, his feet creating scuff marks as he kicked stones. “I’m fine. Just needed to get some air. Is he er, is Lock okay?”
“He’s upset, he keeps saying it’s his fault. What happened?” There was a moment’s silence from the other end, so quiet Greg had to check he hadn’t hung up.
“We can talk about it later, I’m not in the right frame of mind. Is he staying the night with you?”
Greg snorted, humourless. “I’m not letting him out of my sight, quite frankly. Will you come too?” His pitch raised in hope.
John shook his head before remembering he could not be seen. “Not tonight, I’ll go back to the flat.”
Greg headed towards Lock’s room, lingering in the doorway before he ended the call, just in case John said anything out of line in earshot of the toddler. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yeah, talk later. Bye.” He hung up. Greg sighed and shook his head as Mycroft looked to him expectantly.
Mycroft pursed his lips. Lock looked between them, seated on papa’s lap, eyes widened in hope. “Jahn come?”
“Not tonight love.” Lock was crestfallen, about to dissolve into floods of tears if he wasn’t distracted. “Why don’t we read a story, hm? Your choice.”
His favourite pyjamas were laid out on the radiator, with a nappy waiting to be worn, a fresh dummy and his snuggly toys. Mycroft lifted him onto the changing table after undressing him, but was taken aback by the state of his skin. Ugly bruises mottled porcelain flesh, ranging from minuscule to fist-sized.
“Did he hit you?” Lock whimpered, eyes downcast, shivering. His chin was lifted by an index finger, so he closed his eyes and scrunched them. “Lock?”
“I hit too.”
“You hit each other?” Lock, mortified, nodded his head. He was sick with guilt, wanted nothing more than to be punished and told what an awful boy he was, even if it broke his heart.
The room was silent as the daddies had a private conversation consisting of facial expressions. In the end, Lock jumped as two sets of arms wound around him, warm and comforting, pointedly avoiding his injuries.
“Whatever the fight was about, darling, they should have been no physical altercations.” Mycroft murmured.
“I’m sorry.” He cried at the same time a fresh batch of tears sprung to his waterline.
“That being said,” Mycroft continued. “You are not a bad person, it was a mistake, but you’re alright. Do your injuries hurt?”
Lock shrugged. Greg tutted. “You need to tell the truth sweetheart. Honesty is key.”
The little boy sighed. “A bit. My back hurts.”
“Good boy, let me see?” Along his skin was a large scratch caused by the corner of the coffee table when he’d fallen, having bled onto his shirt. “Oh baby, why did you hide this from us?”
Lock didn’t answer, cheeks flushed. Mycroft’s irises flickered as he made several deductions in a matter of seconds, then softened. “You didn’t deserve it, you know. You don’t deserve to suffer, regardless of what happened.”
The younger Holmes’ head snapped up like a deer in headlights, wondering how papa could’ve known exactly what he was thinking. Two thumb pads wiped away his tears, as another set of hands applied soft cotton padding to his wound and taped it down. Lock shut his eyes tightly, muscles wound tight like a coil. Guilt was eating at him, even worse now that he was too young to process the fight, but daddy knew just what to do.
And that was how they found themselves pacing the floor of the living room, bouncing and rocking as Greg willed his son to stop crying. Mycroft was beside himself with worry, frown lines permanently etched into his brow, bottom lip sucked between teeth in such an odd display for a Holmes. He made juice just to feel helpful before standing in the doorway, hovering. He looked as useless as Greg felt.
Lock settled eventually, mostly due to a lack of energy, slumped against Greg’s torso. Still unable to verbalise, his daddies could only guess what had occurred to cause such a drama as they relocated to the master bedroom. There was no way in hell Lock would be sleeping alone tonight. He was placed in the middle, lying his weary head on papa’s chest as daddy spooned him on the other side. It was quiet, save for their breathing and the occasional sniffle, as if words would break the peace.
Sherlock and John had some talking to do.