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John Watson was struggling. He was a man of integrity and pride, his dignity something he greatly respected, although he was also stubborn and petulant. Following his endeavour undercover, though he would hardly consider his former title as Captain a disguise, John had been rather difficult in his family’s orbit. John’s mood fluctuated vastly between hours – his behaviour hard to pinpoint and impossible to predict. He could be laughing one second; keen on cuddles and affection, the next be clawing himself free and fixing his face with a scowl.
He’d scarcely spoken since the incident at the pub, though nobody could fault him, and he was especially wary around Sherlock. Much less so when he was little, as if the young boy in him had conceded that playtime was significantly more enjoyable when with company than to fuss over the adult conflict he shared with Holmes. Regardless, they were not to interact alone, and if unavoidable Sherlock was to remain several feet away from Watson, whose recently developed attachment issues prevented him from occupying a room on his own.
In summary, it had been a rough few days filled with trepidation (on the fathers’ parts), fear (on Sherlock’s part) and a healthy helping of disgruntlement from their little doctor. And god had they tried to help him. Mycroft dedicated hours attempting to encourage laughter and coax out the playful personality his boy usually maintained when young, Greg totalling five hours of rocking and carrying when Jawn wept without explanation. It was impossible to soothe him when they could not source the root of the issue, and Jawn was not fond of sharing his feelings with words.
Sherlock kept his distance, occupying his mind with plans and backup plans and cleaning the manor, a feat which shocked even his older brother. Sherlock was, at the end of the day, still a man prone to intense fits of boredom and destruction, so to be subjected to a ban on cases was punishment in itself, more powerful than any physical retribution could have provided. It was a remarkable sight to bear witness to, Greg thought, as he watched Sherlock cleaning the hob whilst he kept an eye on Jawn.
It was midway through the week that they had a breakthrough with young Watson. Against their wishes Holmes and Lestrade were still needed at work, their roles pertinent as leaders. Jawn, for lack of an alternative, was placed in the care of Sherlock’s capable hands, who swore he would not regress if Jawn wanted to play with him; he had, in fact, tried valiantly over the handful of days since the incident to regress but couldn’t relax enough to allow headspace to overwrite his enthused brain.
With a detailed set of instructions laid out for any eventuality, Mycroft’s pedantic work in the form of several handwritten notes on lined paper in his delightful calligraphic script Greg could only dream of performing, Sherlock was reassured, Jawn hugged goodbye, and they were left to their own devices for several hours.
After a wobbly start of tears and an anxious Jawn avoiding Sherlock’s touch, the passing hour seemed to balm the worst of Watson’s fears of abandonment. Holmes procured several boxes of toys from the bedroom with every form of activity they owned to entertain a young boy between toddler age and under ten. Jawn clattered with toy cars quietly in the living room, lining several up in neat, precise lines, selecting two at a time to simulate car crashes and explosions, paired with the occasional whispered imitation of screams. Sherlock understood the unusual violence in the pretend-play – Jawn was still processing what had happened to him, and the crashes were a representation of his emotions as he registered the impact on his psyche. Sometimes he would swing his arm too vigorously and whimper, the muscles still tender and bruised from the battering he’d received during his fight at the pub.
John had, unwilling but determined, gone with Greg to the station to positively identify the O’Brien twins as his assailants the same day he had sat down to talk of his issues with his boyfriend. Boyfriend – Sherlock had to remind himself – John was yet to, and hopefully would not, formally break up with him. The twins were, once confirmed, rather willing to talk, both spitting vitriol for the unfairness of their fallen brother and deeming their acts sacrifice for a greater cause. That was, to say, a rather aggrandising way to state they had wanted their brother’s dog tags back and the medal he’d received in service when alive that they claimed had been stolen. Sherlock would have possessed a modicum of sympathy, only if imagining John in such a predicament, had it not been his John injured and recuperating due to their actions. Greg promised they would not be released from custody any time soon, if at all, once their trial was set.
In the meantime, Jawn was content to play by himself, his lip curling into a nasty snarl whenever Sherlock attempted to approach. Aside from accepting the set of track pieces Sherlock offered for his cars, Jawn ignored his presence and the eyes trained on his every move. Quite used to the Piercing Gaze of Deduction, as he’d taken to calling the identical Holmes scrutinies, Watson (and recently Lestrade) lacked the care to feel pinned down under such survey. He was also nonverbal, providing a litany of sound effects to his world of destruction and, if Sherlock was to guess, terror, based on the rapidly increasing frequency of screams and shouts Jawn supplied to the imaginary passengers of his overturned plastic vehicles.
“Can I help?” Sherlock asked, slipping from the couch onto his bum as close as Jawn could tolerate.
Watson growled, pulling his cars closer possessively but leaving behind the tracks between them. Sherlock powered on, snapping several together to make a flat road with a veering right turn towards the end. Jawn glanced over, his eyes flickering to and from in a double take, and he squealed. It was one of annoyance, and he snatched up the tracks to pull apart what Sherlock had created to redo it how he preferred.
Holmes restrained a smirk, counting the interaction a win, because Jawn was showing interest at the bare minimum, and moved on to add pieces to the ends of Jawn’s newly built track. However, his blessings were short-lived, as Watson’s confidence waxed in a negatively unpleasant way. Rather than communicate his wish to be alone in an effective manner, Jawn instead threw a car in the general direction of Sherlock’s head, and when that failed, he screeched, crawling closer to pull the pieces of track apart again.
“Easy, it’s alright. I’m sorry.” Sherlock placated, raising his arms up, palms outstretched away from the carpet. It was not sufficient in convincing Jawn that he was no threat, however.
Jawn shot a glare at him, now a hair-breadth away, the close proximity causing Jawn’s hot breath to tickle the downy hairs on Sherlock’s face. “Mine!”
Sherlock frowned. “It’s nice to share, Jawn. What’s the matter?” He kept his voice light and gentle, for irking Watson was becoming an inevitability he would prefer not to endure. It seemed he was embroiled in a losing battle.
“No!” Jawn shouted, his voice slightly shrill with emotion. He was angry, that was deducible even to the likes of Anderson, though it was probable Jawn could not identify what about exactly, on top of not knowing how to properly express himself.
Unsure of how to deescalate the situation, Sherlock utilised the tactics their fathers often used when one of them was emotionally fragile. He shuffled closer, ensuring he was stabilised so that he could pull Jawn into his lap. Jawn, unfortunately, reacted viscerally, screaming down Sherlock’s ear and struggling for freedom. Holmes flinched, cringing away from the noise whilst maintaining his grip on the boy should he fall.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright, you’re okay,” Sherlock soothed, cupping the back of Jawn’s head to press his face into his chest. “Deep breaths, that’s it.”
It appeared, initially, that Watson was going to cooperate, Sherlock confident that he’d prevented a meltdown before it could get out of hand. That confidence waned just as fast, like the spitting flicker of a burnt-out candle wick, Sherlock’s expression darkening in displeasure as elbows poked into his ribs. Jawn slipped free for a single second, managing to land a punch to Sherlock’s sternum, and when grabbed again, he hit at any skin available with the flats of his palms, most of which landed with a satisfyingly solid thump.
Holmes’ chest scorched – Jawn may have been little mentally but he still possessed the physical strength of a grown man, and he often forgot his own brawn when upset. He pushed at Sherlock, still vocalising his displeasure, kicking and flailing without purpose; a tantrum on the cusp should he not be reeled in. His actions were not planned, the floundering clear, at least to Sherlock, an innate reaction to the emotional turmoil that had stolen his rationality. Holmes knew he needed to calm Jawn down safely in a way that did not break the foundations of trust they had slowly rebuilt since their falling out.
Sherlock drew in a breath, counting to ten to ensure he felt composed. “Jawn, enough.”
Watson stilled, the deep, sharp tone momentarily dazing him. Sherlock tipped him away from his lap, tugging Jawn’s legs so that he fell gently onto his back, skull supported by Sherlock’s hand. Before Jawn could register the new position, Sherlock was straddling his hips, ensuring not to press his full weight down, and had Jawn’s arms pinned to his sides in less than a second.
“No! Off! No no no!” Watson squawked, his back arching; the only point of his body able to move. Sherlock took another moment to collect himself, his patience fleeting at best. He was proving his worthiness as a friend-cum-brother-cum-partner, however, and had vowed to care for Watson big and little, promising his fathers that they were capable of spending an afternoon together unsupervised. He was determined not to screw it up.
Sherlock applied his voice of placation, higher than the usual baritone with a manipulative lilt to calm down even the youngest of fraught minds. “Jawn, I need you to calm down now. Copy my breathing. Ready?” Jawn screamed over him. Sherlock sighed, feeling tears of frustration burn at the back of his eyes. By now their fathers would have intercepted, but there was nobody here except him for Jawn to rely on, and until he settled, there was no hope in comforting him.
Watson continued to caw at the top of his lungs, and surely it must hurt to keen so loudly? If not provide the worst tension headache to all within the vicinity. Sherlock retorted to begging. “Jawn, please. Breathe!”
“No!” Though puerile, Jawn was being difficult out of spite, his stubbornness at its worst when he was little and furious. Sherlock had dealt with enough of Jawn’s tantrums to realise compromise would not be appropriate, that set boundaries were required for Jawn to realise his behaviour was unacceptable.
“I’m not moving until you breathe. Follow me.” Watson continued to struggle, despite knowing Sherlock was truthful, unwilling to give in just yet, guttural noises escaping his throat as he strained. Sherlock waited patiently, holding him down for long minutes lest he hurt himself in his stupor, and when the energy at last depleted, Jawn slumping bonelessly, he began to copy Sherlock’s breathing patterns.
“Good boy,” Sherlock soothed, exaggerating his breaths for Jawn to follow. “There we are.”
Jawn settled, the fight ripped from him just as fast as it came. Only when Sherlock trusted that Jawn would not begin screaming and smacking again did he slide back, loosening the grip on his wrists. Within an instant Jawn reoriented, lurching upwards dizzily to deliberately fall against Sherlock’s chest. Holmes situated them properly, his back drawn to the edge of the couch so Jawn was balanced in his lap.
“Alright baby, alright,” Sherlock whispered in Jawn’s ear, his lips pressing to the thin skin behind the shell. Jawn whimpered, hot tears soaking his cheeks before he could conscion the response, sniffling pitifully. His cries belayed his frustrations although the volume did not exceed beyond breathy whimpers that sought to seize Sherlock’s heart in a chokehold.
Jawn’s sudden urge to seek out comfort was not surprising, for no matter the underlying conflict bubbling away between them he still missed his partner. He did not want to split, or to fight any longer, as he’d stated days prior, but his little self was struggling to come to terms with the months of relentless tiredness and neglect cast upon his body at an age when he could no longer bounce back the way he could when he was younger. He needed Sherlock, in that moment, to know he was still there, that hope could be instilled, their relationship not irreconcilable.
And then.
“Why did- you leave- me? Why- do you- always leave me?” He wept, breaths hitching after every other word. Fingers grasped at Sherlock’s shirt, fisting the material in an unmovable grip, sodden face concealed against his sternum.
Sherlock’s breath altered too, heartbeat picking up speed as a zing of emotion bolted up his spine. Such a visceral reaction was not something he was accustomed to, and he bit back the upset threatening to spill from his waterline. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. There is no excuse.”
“Please don’t leave me anymore,” Jawn said, the words entirely too grownup for the tiny voice that spoke them. “I miss you.”
Words betrayed Holmes. There was not a single explanation or sentiment in any language he knew that could appropriately express his guilt and sorrow. Sometimes words weren’t needed. He curled his arms tightly around the smaller frame bracketing his thighs, not with the power to cause harm but to assure he was not going anywhere. They rocked together, an undulation that provided a zephyr that both soothed and cooled their heated bodies. Sherlock did not stop until Jawn’s cries waned into nothingness, though he was still disquiet and clingy when the tears dried up.
“I need to put you down just for one second,” Jawn whined. “And then I’ll pick you right back up again.”
Their pinkies intertwined to prove Sherlock was not fibbing, Jawn reluctant to separate from him notwithstanding their earlier altercation. As promised Jawn was seated firmly on Sherlock’s hip without even realising there had been movement, cheek squished to his shoulder.
“I think we both need a drink. Perhaps a nap?”
“No nap,” Jawn mumbled into his shirt, the words muffled but the grip around Holmes’ shoulders a perfect translation.
Sherlock chuckled. Typical toddler. “Alright, no nap.”
He could, if he really wanted, deploy his best arsenal to coax Jawn into a nap regardless of his refusal, but he was saving that for an overtired babe, which Jawn was not currently close to being. Water was provided in a marine themed sippy cup, the straw made of flexible silicone that Jawn enjoyed flicking with his tongue. Sherlock chugged down a glass of water and poured himself another one, sipping tepidly at the second as he resumed rocking his charge.
“What would you like to do?” Jawn didn’t answer. There was a likelihood he’d fallen nonverbal again. Sherlock didn’t mind a bit; they could do with some peace and quiet following all that screaming. “Would you like to play?”
Jawn shook his head. “Watch TV?” Another head shake. Sherlock tapped his chin dramatically, pursing his lips with an exaggerated draw of his eyebrows. “Hmm, what-ever shall we do?”
Watson giggled, the straw tucked between his teeth, but made no suggestions. Sherlock drew in a sharp intake of breath. “I have an idea!”
Greg managed to slip from the office exactly on time, which was a miracle he would not take for granted. He took the opportunity to, instead of rushing as he usually would, plan out the remainder of his evening. Mycroft was scheduled to finish in an hour, which meant he had time to gather ingredients for a rather lavish dinner he’d wanted to make for a while but had lacked the time – especially since Jawn’s breakdown – and then surprise his partner with a personal lift home from work.
His shopping trip proved fruitful, and with the bags loaded into the boot of his car, Greg drove back on himself to meet with Mycroft. He’d informed the PA not to have a chauffeur idling, nor to tell his partner he was there, and sat back to wait. Greg scrolled through his phone, emails and such answered, new cases rolling in that Sherlock would solve at a mere glance, though his text message inbox was surprisingly empty. Vowing not to worry, Lestrade checked the time and got out of his car, leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed at his chest, one ankle resting atop the other.
As predicted, and, truth be told, the PA informed Greg of his impending arrival, Mycroft appeared on the steps not five minutes later. He was slightly confused, though to a layperson he appeared no less ruffled, Greg watching amusedly as his eyes scanned the environment.
“What brings you here?” Mycroft asked. Greg shrugged, moving around the car to open the door for his partner.
“Thought I’d stop by, save your driver a trip.” Mycroft paused, his gaze flickering up and down his boyfriend’s body to read his day.
“You’ve been shopping.” It was not a question.
Greg nodded. “I have. Are you going to stand there ogling me all day?”
Mycroft’s mutterings were muffled by the slamming of the car door, his cheeks tinged with a sheepish glow; Greg had caught him red handed, the tip of his tongue barely visible between parted lips at the sight of Lestrade’s bared forearms. He’d deliberately rolled his sleeves up to be a tease.
Unable and unwilling to conceal his smirk, Greg slid in beside him with a sigh. “How was work?”
“Dreadfully boring, to quote Sherlock. Yours?”
“Not so bad. Had a new recruit in, he’s fairly affable; Sherlock’s going to hate him!” Mycroft laughed, head tipping back to rest, his eyes shutting. Greg frowned. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Holmes didn’t open his eyes but he flew a hand out to squeeze his partner’s thigh. Had they not been so close to a potentially sighting by Mycroft’s coworkers they would have kissed. As it were, their relationship would not be denied if questioned, albeit they were not prone to acts of PDA either.
“Just tired, love. Have you heard anything from the kids?”
“No. I’m nervous, if I’m being honest,” Mycroft tilted his head, eyes shut tight. “I mean, I know they say no news is good news but I do still worry. What if Jawn had another breakdown and weren’t there?”
“I had Sherlock promise to contact either of us immediately should there be an incident. I’m sure they’ve made a compromise.”
Greg sighed, lifting Mycroft’s hand to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. “I hope you’re right.”
“When am I ever wrong?”
Greg’s fears were hardly quelled upon their arrival home. He tried to disguise the shaking of his hands as he shimmied his shopping bags onto one arm, flexing childishly at his partner to demonstrate his strength, who snorted and swatted his bum. “Worse than the kids,” Mycroft murmured.
Though he had faith in his younger brother, Mycroft had also possessed small moments of fretting during his workday. He did not want to dampen Sherlock’s enthusiasm and confidence; it was known that he neglected the needs of both his body and others, and Mycroft hoped for his sake he’d remembered to feed little Jawn. He needn’t worry, and he tried not to, because Sherlock’s abilities as a caregiver were lauded, and he always tended to the little doctor’s every need without complaint. It was the primary reason he was entrusted to care for Jawn in their absence even during their feud.
“Do you think they’re napping?” Greg whispered in the silence of the foyer. Indeed it was barren, the household cast in darkness.
“Perhaps,” Mycroft surged forward, shoes abandoned on the rack at the door, as he padded further into the house. Beneath the closed door of the living room there emanated a soft glow. “Shall we see?”
Greg’s shopping consisted mostly of non-perishables, and so with the exception of meat he quickly stored in the fridge, the rest of the food was left for later on the countertops. He followed Mycroft through to the living room, his paces light lest he disturb a potential nap, stopping in his tracks at the natural disaster that had befallen their home.
Where there was once a living room now displayed a fort of disproportionate measures. Blankets were skilfully tied and strung up to produce a second ceiling much lower than the original, draped in fits and bursts like a tent. Crouching, they would find a dimly lit nook of cosiness containing what Mycroft would estimate an entire packet worth of crumbs littered about the laid-down blankets, a single lamp plugged in at the centre, a laptop and, most importantly: two cuddling boys. Well, one boy, one cramped adult serving as a makeshift bed for the boy.
“Look who it is, Jawn!” Sherlock poked Jawn’s belly and pointed to their fathers. Watson gasped, gathering his limbs underneath himself gracelessly to clamber hands and knees toward them.
“Daddy! Papa!”
Greg’s arms were opened wide to welcome him. “Hello spud! You look like you’ve had a wonderful day!”
“Da!” Jawn replied, bashing his head into Greg’s chest with his arms wrapped tightly around his neck just this side of constricting. Watson giggled as he was shuffled about, Greg sinking to his knees to join the huddle.
“Did you make this together?” He asked, a slightly awestruck expression lightening the creases in his face. Sherlock had to wonder which one of them was the little.
Sherlock snorted, propping his torso on one elbow. “I wish. Little lazy bones over there decided to lie down on the blanket and not move for the forty minutes it took me to erect this.”
Greg laughed. “Worth it though, I’d be loathe to take it down.”
“I wouldn’t,” Mycroft added as he was reluctantly dragged inside, the attempt to avoid assumedly biscuit crumbs futile. “I’ll be hoovering this up forever.”
Sherlock shrugged. “It was your decision to have kids.”
Mycroft had the sudden puerile urge to stick his tongue out. He just barely resisted. “And I hope I shan’t regret it. Shuffle along.”
The trio scooted further into the bowels of the fort which was tall enough that they could comfortably sit upright with an inch of headroom between the topmost blankets. Greg, whilst patting Jawn’s back, had a good look around.
“Who’s this? I’ve never seen this one before,” Greg lifted a densely stuffed teddy bear to inspect, the fur a light brown and shaggy. It had glass eyes and a sewn smile, the limbs stiff in a sitting position. One of the paw pads was noticeably more worn than the rest.
“Oh, that was Mycroft’s when he was a little boy. Jawn found him and demanded we add him to the collection.” Sherlock explained nonchalantly.
Greg’s mouth turned downwards, his eyes flashing with something Mycroft couldn’t identify. “I didn’t know you still had a teddy.”
“It was hidden in the back of the wardrobe. Have you never gone snooping?” Sherlock frowned.
“Why would I need to?” Greg cracked a smile. “Go on, what’s his name? Assuming it’s a boy bear, of course.”
“I cannot remember.” Mycroft said, his cheeks a faint pink.
Sherlock, in response, snorted and snatched the bear to fix the red bow tie clasped around its neck. “Stop lying. His name is Winston, you know, like Churchill?”
“Oh that is adorable. You’ve always been a patriot then! Isn’t that cute Jawn? This is papa’s bear.”
Jawn stuck his fingers in his mouth, slobbering down his wrist with a mirthful smile peeking behind his hand. “Papa bear!”
“That’s right,” Greg confirmed, his lips finding Jawn’s temple. “Are you and Sherlock friends again now? Seems like you were having a lovely old cuddle a minute ago.”
Jawn didn’t answer, deferring to Sherlock with a turn of his head. As Sherlock explained the wobbly beginning, the tantrum and their makeup, Jawn squirmed from daddy’s lap to greet papa with similar fanfare.
“-so yeah, it seems for now, at least, he doesn’t mind being in my vicinity.”
“A wonderful improvement. Shall we mark this dispute as over and behind us?” Mycroft asked, his neck craned to catch Jawn’s eye line. The little boy didn’t need to reply verbally to express his answer, reaching out for Sherlock to hold his hand with his non-soggy digits. “I’ll take that as a yes. Thank the heavens!”
“Hurrah! Cause for celebration, me thinks!” Greg grinned. He couldn’t put an adjective to the relief he felt, so visceral he could swear it was tangible, almost lightheaded with the blood pumping through his veins. Jawn seemed content, at the very minimum, if not eminently more relaxed than he’d been in days, going so far as to use Sherlock’s chest as a pillow so reminiscent as before to continue their paused cartoons.
He decided then, Mycroft likely reading his thoughts like physical words on a page via his expression, that tonight they’d dine like veritable kings in their castle of cosiness, their thrones made of pillows and teddies, their dinner served with just a hint of caution. Greg planned on spoon feeding Jawn regardless. It was then he realised there was something missing from the fort… a final touch necessary.
“Where’s he going?” Sherlock asked bemusedly when Greg suddenly vanished out the exit.
“I think he’s just as excited about this fort,” Mycroft chuckled. “I do question who my children are on occasion.”
Greg darted back into their haven as if prey chased into a cave, brandishing a nest of wire. “Look what I’ve got!” He sang. Jawn hummed enthusiastically, though he stayed comfy in his position and trailed daddy with his eyes.
After some fumbling, Sherlock tutting and providing assistance to untangle the coil of wire, Greg plugged it in to electrify their huddle with the magical glow of fairy lights. Jawn, predictably, was enthralled, grasping gently some of the lights in his palm for inspection.
“Woah,” He whispered, reverent and wonderstruck.
Mycroft kissed his cheek. They were back on track, at long last. The month would pass much faster (and pleasantly) if they were all getting along. For now, though, he quietened his mind, brushed some crumbs from a spot beside his sibling, and settled down for a relaxing evening.