Archive of Our Own

John woke to an empty bed. He felt around blindly, blinking the bleary vestiges of sleep from his eyes, but the groped sheets were cool to the touch. He frowned and sat up, the room equally barren. It took a moment for his brain to catch up, belatedly recalling that, though big, he had spent the past fortnight lodging with Mycroft and Greg.

Watson indulged in the warmth of bedding likely more expensive than he could even comprehend, the softness of a high thread count never any less pleasurable to rub against than the first experience. He glided his legs across the sheets, his pinstriped pyjama pants bunched around his knees from a night of restless sleep.

He and Sherlock were on better terms than they had been, but his logical adult brain still fought to forgive him for his transgressions in their relationship. Sherlock had tried, god had he tried to prove his adequacy as a boyfriend and flatmate, but John was still wary. What if the month passed, Sherlock and he moving back to Baker Street, and all progress was lost in the thrill of a new case? The ban was a temporary measure at best, and John knew Sherlock struggled to maintain his affection when faced with satisfying mental stimulation. John often fell to the wayside, was made to feel less-than – an inconvenience when he was unable to keep up with Sherlock’s ramblings.

Had it already begun? They’d only been here for two weeks, just under if John was to be pedantic, and Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Well, John was yet to actually search, but an immediate scan of the bedroom proved he was alone, and judging by the lack of temperature on the other side of the bed, he had been for a while too.

John rose gradually, joints crackling pleasantly as he stretched, the kind only achieved of a morning that could curl toes and coax a groan of satisfaction. He padded from the spare bedroom, passing the closed door of his little bedroom to locate the bathroom. John yawned, his jaw popping as he pissed into the bowl, humming to himself. Mycroft and Greg had long left for work, which would have been uninteresting news if not for wondering what Sherlock had occupied his time with since. No time like the present, John thought as he made for the stairs.

Approaching the kitchen, he heard movement beyond the door and entered cautiously. Sometimes he expected to get his head bit off for daring to disturb Sherlock and his bemusing experiments, but Holmes had listed that trait as one he was aiming to amend. The man in question sat fidgeting at the table, a newspaper opened to the third page, though Sherlock did not appear to be reading.

“Oh, hello. Good morning.” Sherlock seemed genuinely startled by his presence, but John knew better. Perhaps he was attempting to appear more human, as if he were not immune to emotion and innate responses. John hid his fondness with a cough.

“Hi,” He said. “How long have you been up?”

“A while; couldn’t sleep. Made you some tea.” Sherlock got to his feet rather gracelessly, almost stumbling to get nearer. John let him, head tipped back to look his partner in the eye.

“Thank you. You having any?” Sherlock blinked, eyes flickering between John’s. He shook from his reverie and nodded, Watson not bothering to question what he might’ve found in his deductions. “Good.” John said.

Sherlock bent, then, a rapid blur of lips on lips that John barely had time to register. He could not reciprocate, even if he wanted to, for Sherlock was sitting back down again, toying the edges of the newspaper self-consciously. Watson joined him, opposite, sipping at the mug of tea left out for him. It was the perfect temperature, his preferences of milk and sugar exactly how he liked, and he smiled. So he does know how to make tea.

“Any plans for the day?” John had none himself, for it was the first day he’d awoken without regression fogging his mind; Sherlock had cared for him since the incident, when Greg and Mycroft were drawn to their civil duties.

Sherlock cleared his throat, his demeanour unlike his wonted confidence. Gone was the sarcasm and general ignorance, in its place a nervousness that sought to fret John similarly. “It’s actually quite a big day.”

“It is?” John asked, glancing at the calendar. There was nothing of note, nor did an occasion spring to mind. They had not dated long enough to mark an anniversary, either.

“One year since the day you first regressed. At least, properly, or one year and one month since you first attempted to.” Sherlock explained, cheeks aflame.

“Oh,” John said plainly. He had no idea. Could hardly remember the first times, except for the overwhelming embarrassment he’d battled for months in the beginning. “Has it really been that long already?”

Sherlock smiled, though wan, his eyes twinkling. “I remember your first tantrum when I tried to bath you before bed.”

Sherlock laughed, a deep rumble John hadn’t realised he’d missed until it was right there, tickling his ears joyfully. He played along, a faux frown creasing his eyebrows. “I didn’t have a tantrum!”

“You so did! ‘No Sherlock, you’re not fucking coming near me with your stupid posh soap! Piss off, I’m not tired, I don’t want to go to bed!’” Sherlock’s voice was a perfect imitation of John’s when it staggered between big and little. John frowned properly then.

“You let me swear?”

“Well,” Sherlock sang, his teeth peeking out in a tiny smile. “I did try to stop you but you smacked me with a towel.”

John couldn’t resist the laughter effervescing from his throat, and he began to chuckle. “Oh god, I did, didn’t I?”

“I think we’ve made remarkable progress since,” Sherlock said, reaching out for John’s hands. “Well… until I-”

His hand withdrew but John caught it, lacing their fingers together. “We have. And we will. I don’t want this to end, Sherlock, as much as you may believe that. I love this… us, but there are a few things that need fixing, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded although his face belied the war in his mind. “Yeah… So. How do you want to celebrate?”

“No parties, that’d make me feel weird!” John laughed, squeezing his hand. “I’m surprised you haven’t planned the whole thing out already.”

“It’s your anniversary, not mine. What would you like to do?”

John shrugged. “Surprise me.”

Sherlock utilised the wealth of entertainment ideas his surrogate fathers had tucked away for children small and tiny. He had to wait for both men to finish work, which was a hapless inconvenience, the hours ticking by torturously slowly. He and John wiled away the time with boardgames and a touch of gardening, Sherlock tending to their flowerbed chock-full of mismatched flowers they’d collected over the months, John hauling weeds out by the fistful.

Greg was appalled upon hearing that there was an anniversary he hadn’t known beforehand, for he would’ve adored planning a surprise celebration. John wasn’t fussed either way, having, ironically, spent the day big with no urge to regress. Rather than rush to procure something that evening, there was a mutual agreement that they could dedicate the following day to paying homage to little Jawn and all his adventures.

“Is there anything particular you want to do?” Greg asked, watching Mycroft leave the room, phone in hand, having claimed there was a phone call he needed to make.

“Not really. Maybe something we haven’t done before? But I have no idea what that would be.” John answered; he felt rather useless, with nothing to offer to the conversation, but nothing intrigued him the way it usually would if he was in the mindset of a little boy.

“There’s loads of things we haven’t had chance to do yet!” Greg was far from deterred, several ideas already seeded in his mind, some of which he disregarded as impossible, others to be discussed with the Holmes brothers further.

In the meantime, they set the dining room table up to feast upon John’s favourite takeaway with the promise of good beer and a game or two for a laugh. It was a nice night, John feeling the lightest he had in weeks, a smile plastered on his face. Mycroft was surprisingly unhinged when playing Kerplunk and had a few choice words for the marbles that seemed to gush on every one of his turns. By the end Greg was wiping tears from his eyes, stomach clenching from all the laughter.

John elected to be left out of the plans to allow the excitement of a surprise, more to benefit Greg and Sherlock, who were equally eager to make the celebration as perfect as, in their words, John deserved. So when Sherlock crept into their bedroom for the night, John having long excused himself, he felt a smile creep upon his lips.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” Sherlock’s weight dipped the mattress.

“No. C’mere. Wan’ a cuddle.” John shimmied over, the covers lifted to invite Sherlock inside. They were both naked, save for their boxers, and Sherlock was keen to scramble into the warmth, one leg slinging over both of John’s.

“Y’okay?” Sherlock mumbled into his ear, hot breath tickling the downy hairs surrounding it. John shivered, not unpleasantly, and pressed his bum into the divot Sherlock’s curled torso left.

“M’fine. You?”

“I’m okay.” Sherlock nuzzled at his neck, hands winding around to grasp any bit of flesh he could reach. After a moment of quiet he spoke again. “I love you.”

John shifted to press a kiss on Sherlock’s mouth, landing one on the corner, the angle preventing him from aiming properly. Sherlock sighed, pressing impossibly closer, his feet tangling with John’s shins.

“Christ,” John gasped. “I love you too but you’re freezing! Go put some socks on.”

“M’not that cold,” Sherlock mumbled, reluctantly peeling away to search for the bed socks John insisted he keep nearby; his tendency to cuddle up with icy limbs was not something John enjoyed as the smaller spoon of the relationship.

When Sherlock returned, his feet were still much cooler but did not shock John when they reassumed their positions. John tugged one of Sherlock’s arms over him, clutching the hand to his chest after kissing the knuckles. “Finished planning then?”

“Just about. I’m sure Mycroft is going back and amending everything, you know what he’s like.” Sherlock huffed into his neck.

“He just wants to be involved is all.”

“I suppose so. He somehow didn’t even know it was your anniversary.”

John scoffed. “He doesn’t know everything. Nor do you.”

“I half expected him to have recorded every milestone and have celebrations set for each accordingly.”

“No, that’s something I’d expect from you.” John laughed, and though mirthful it was tiredly halfhearted. The noise trailed off into quiet, even the distant movements of the couple downstairs waning.

Sherlock spent a minute pensively caught in a mental turmoil. John left him to work through it, waiting patiently for a question that was as inevitable as the sun rising of a morning. “Are… are we okay?”

“Yeah… yeah, I think so,” John replied. “Go to sleep.”

Sherlock shifted him closer, back to chest, moulded together as though they were always meant to fit. “Big day tomorrow, but you don’t have to get up early.”

“Mmhm. G’night.”

Sherlock barely slept, keeping vigilant over John as he did every night he struggled to nod off. John snored softly into the pillow and kept a tight grip of Sherlock’s hand nearly the entire night. Holmes heard their parents go to bed about an hour after him, their footsteps quiet, someone shushing the ramblings of the other. After that, there was silence.

Despite the lack of sleep, Sherlock managing only three hours, he felt completely refreshed come morn, slipping from behind John to head downstairs. Whether John awoke big or little did not depend on the breakfast he made, for jam on toast was a staple for Watsons of all ages – one of the doctor’s favourites. Mycroft would not approve of chocolate waffles with syrup, the calories in one alone sending shivers down his spine, but he could tolerate toast, for the jam was sugar free and seedless.

Sherlock set out everything he needed, including what Mycroft would want to use for lunch, then sat back with a cup of tea to wait. He was antsy, foot bouncing restless against the tiled floor, his mind muddled with the conversation from the night before. Had John forgiven him? Had that been his repentance? And there had been an utterance of love jumbled up in there too.

Sherlock so desperately wanted to believe John’s admission that he did not want their relationship to end, that his love was genuine and not borne of pity, but there lay a darker side in the pits of his mind, the kind he locked in padded cells among chains and straight jackets, and though that voice could be quietened, it could never be silenced. It told him their partnership was a lie, that John’s company was out of sympathy for a lonely genius with an addiction to drugs and thumb-sucking. He knew indulging the whims of the monster in the cellar was detrimental, a danger to his psyche, and yet without intervention he would always slip, feet tripping in the darkness toward the lilting deceit of the voice. He doesn’t love you. It’s all a lie. That’s all it’s ever been: a big, fat, li-

“Sherlock?”

Holmes snapped from his reverie with a start, his body jerking in the cool wooden seat at the kitchen table. “Oh. Morning.”

Mycroft frowned, stepping closer to clasp a palm across Sherlock’s forehead. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock resisted the urge to pull away. Albeit Mycroft could see through his façade he assured him that he was fine, that he’d woken up early and become bored. The latter part was partially true, and with Mycroft’s presence a welcoming distraction he got chatting about the plans for the day ahead. As predicted there were additions to the itinerary and tweaks where perhaps, admittedly, he and Greg had become overzealous in their excitement to make the day perfect for their John. There would be no party, upon John’s insistence, instead a litany of fun to be had elsewhere.

“And tomorrow?” Sherlock asked. He had altered the schedule in his head to match Mycroft’s, the words handwritten in big letters on a weekly planner pinned to the vestibule of his mind palace where he could not miss it.

Mycroft tapped the side of his nose for secrecy. “I have something on the back burner. I’m owed.”

“You’re starting to sound like Sherlock. How many men in London owe you two favours?” The Holmes brothers equally startled, their spines stiffening in response to Greg’s silent appearance. He laughed, taking a seat beside his partner, their lips meeting.

Sherlock shuddered violently. “Gross! You’ve only just seen each other!”

“Like you wouldn’t kiss John every chance you got. Be quiet, grumps.” Greg snipped, biting at Sherlock’s hand with his fingers. Holmes huffed, pulling away with a ghost of a smile trained upon his mouth. With his parents there, happy and familiar, he felt properly relaxed, even when fully adult; perhaps more than he had in a while. Certainly enough to regress, if he was permitted.

Mycroft scanned him almost robotically. “Of course you can, Sherlock. Just let go.” Greg looked between them, wondering where such a non sequitur had come from, when his expression lifted, mouth forming an O of understanding.

“I forgot you could read minds,” He said to Mycroft. And then to Sherlock. “He’s right. We’ve got you. It’d be nice to be little for a while, hm? Probably help John to regress if he wakes up big.”

Mycroft nodded along. “Oh yes indeed. How’s about we go get dressed and then maybe we can check in on our dear Watson?” He said addendum. The teamwork sent Sherlock over the edge, his eyes widening incrementally with the sweetest pout formed on his lips. It felt as though he hadn’t been little in so long; weeks at most in reality, and the welcoming giggle of their little detective was music to their ears.

“There’s our little spud! Come give your ole daddies a cuddle!” Lestrade opened his arms up and was lurched backwards by a sudden heft of weight upon his lap, dark curls sifting into his mouth. He sputtered, hand swiping away the rest, until he could situate Lock in a position where both men could coddle him freely.

“We love you darling, you know that?” Mycroft felt it needed to be said. Lock’s head dropped to his chest, wayward curls concealing his face from view, and he shook it, almost vehement in his denial.

“I’ve been bad.” He said, voice small and upset.

“That doesn’t make you a bad person. John still wants to be here, doesn’t he?” Lock shrugged. There was a little more convincing left to do. “John loves you very much.”

“He’s angry at me.” Lock countered, risking a glance up. The dual looks of concern etched into his fathers’ faces was too much to bear, so he averted his eyes to the fiddling of his hands atop his lap.

Greg shared a frown with his partner. “Someone can be angry and still love you at the same time. Papa and I have had arguments before but it doesn’t mean we stopped loving each other.”

Lock’s expression slackened in surprise, eyes darting wildly between the couple. “You argue?”

“Sometimes, yeah, course we have. Everyone argues. Come on now, cheer up. We need to be happy for Jawn’s special day!” Greg said, poking at the corners of Lock’s mouth to raise into a smile. The little boy giggled, the hands batted away, although the smile fortunately remained. It worked like a charm, and suddenly the sadness was gone and replaced by an excited anticipation for the fun that lay ahead.

It was an inevitability that a boy of Lock’s age would lose patience in waiting when there were adventures to be had, so when he began to squirm in daddy’s lap, Mycroft knew cuddle time was over, and a diversion was necessary. He guided Lock up the stairs, bypassing the spare bedroom in which John was sleeping peacefully, a hand planted over the child’s mouth to quell any noises, and they barrelled into the little bedroom clumsily.

Lock gasped when the hand was released, pretending he was taking his first breath, until he found his act too funny to resist laughing. Mycroft shook his head fondly, prompting Lock to pick out an outfit for himself suitable for the day’s activities, and on second thought, something for Jawn to wear too. It was the feeling of usefulness Lock craved most right now, wanting to help in any way he could, and Mycroft was happy to let them run around in mismatched clothes if it meant his sibling was happy.

What he thought would be a hapless choice of wardrobe turned out to be quite the opposite. Lock picked out a button-up littered with firetrucks and balls of fire paired with shorts an alarming shade of red to match. With them he picked out black socks and his wellies, the socks a choice Mycroft expected to be abandoned within minutes of their adventure beyond. For Jawn he found dungarees cut off just above the knees that had the slightest properties of waterproofing and printed to imitate denim – this time Mycroft was impressed; Lock had the right intentions in mind – with a black and white striped t-shirt to go underneath.

“Good?” Lock asked shyly, clutching the hangers to his chest.

Mycroft grinned, taking the clothes to hang on the front of the door. “Very good Lock! You’ll both look so cute!”

“Not cute.” Lock grumbled, the tip of his tongue poking defiantly from his lips.

“Of course not. You’re utterly adorable, my mistake.”

Lock took one look at papa’s face and decided the battle would be a losing one should he engage. Instead he sighed dramatically, hopping up onto the changing table with an expectancy that he best be cleaned and dressed for the day without any further mishaps. Mycroft made no promises.

There was a moment of deliberation over the strength of protection needed on the lower half of two littles who had unpredictable ages – in that they’d argue nappies if they were feeling older but could slip within a moment’s notice. Mycroft decided that they would be too happy to care about the matter, and without room for arguments, he taped one on to Lock’s crotch and slipped the shorts up his legs. Lock was one set of suspenders away from dressing identically to how he had as a biological child, the clothes equally as likely to end up caked in mud as they had at Musgrave.

“Papa?”

Mycroft set Lock on his feet to slip his shirt on. “Hm?”

Lock bounced on his toes, winding a ringlet of curls around his index finger. “Do you think Jawn will be a baby?”

“Does it matter if he is?” Mycroft asked with genuine curiosity. He wondered what might be going through his son’s head.

“If he’s too small he won’t be able to play, will he?”

“Are you worried you won’t have someone to play with?” Lock’s cheeks heated. Bingo. “You know daddy and I will play with you both, regardless what age you are.”

“Will he still be able to do the plan?”

“Yes, we will follow the itinerary,” Lock released a breath of relief. “I promise the routine will stay the same.”

“What if he is frightened?” Mycroft could sense the inquiry wasn’t just about Watson. He answered as if it was anyway, no wanting to feed into the anxiety. Lock was facing a new challenge for the day.

“He won’t be. Our Jawn is a very tough cookie, isn’t he?”

“Yeah!” And then the question Mycroft had been waiting on tenterhooks for. “Can we go wake him up now?”

The hands on Mycroft’s watch told him it was nearing ten. It was unusual for John to sleep in so late even on his days off but his mind and body were still recovering and absorbing every minute of rest sorely needed. He decided it would be best to agree, just so that John could maintain his strict sleep schedule. Lock needed another distraction too, and what better than to play big brother?

“Alright then. But we must be gentle, okay? Sometimes he’s a little scared when he first wakes up.”

Younger Holmes nodded furiously. “Thinks he’s in Aghan-Affganstan. Aff-gahn-st- war.” Lock gave up breezily, gliding from the room as a rush of blood red that made him appear as a flashing siren not dissimilar to daddy’s police car.

John had his back turned to the door, using the free pillow as a cuddle buddy in which he had one leg slung over. He wasn’t snoring, which was a good sign in Mycroft’s opinion, for it meant he wasn’t in the kind of deep sleep that made waking him a fuss. They would be lucky not to startle him at the very least, but Sherlock had plenty of practice in that department and was far from deterred. He made noise as he approached the bed so not to make his appearance a complete surprise, knee-walking up to the duvet around John’s thighs. He was more visible there, lowering his body so not to loom, and patted John’s leg.

“Jawn!” He sang airily. “Time to wake up!”

The lack of response warranted phase two. Lock draped himself over John’s lower half and began tugging at one arm. When that didn’t work either, he called Jawn’s name with waxing volume until finally Watson groused, cracking open an eye to glare down his nose.

“Hi baby! It’s morning! Come on, we’ve got an adventure!”

“Five m’re m’nutes,” It was actually rather difficult to estimate his age when his voice was so thick with fatigue, but Mycroft bet Lock’s coddling would slip him if he hadn’t already. Lock sighed, loud and histrionic, flopping harder on top of him.

“You’ve sleeped all night! Time to get up now! We gots surprises!” Lock’s speech deteriorated as he was aroused by his own energy, age lowering before Mycroft’s eyes. He couldn’t have been older than three, Holmes wagered, and Watson’s interest was piqued.

“‘Prise?” He asked, rubbing his eyes.

Lock nodded emphatically and helped him sit upright. “Yeah! Come on!”

“Okay, okay. Comin’.”

“Jawn, do you need a wee before we go downstairs?” He nodded. “You need help?” Another nod. He had two very little boys on his hands. No problem, daddy could take Lock for a moment. Little Holmes plodded down the stairs, yelling after his father, whilst Mycroft took care of Jawn’s bathroom intermission.

Jawn was an insecure boy on a good day, and he most preferred fitting in with his peers. To be the only one wearing pyjamas would illicit pure embarrassment, and he’d had plenty of that over the past week. Mycroft ushered him by a palm to the small of his back into his bedroom where Lock’s choice of outfit was waiting. He was rather chuffed that Lock had taken the time and effort to pick something out for him, the clothes perfect for instilling little space when the sleeves obscured his hands. Jawn always looked so tiny in his little clothes, and Mycroft felt a swell of adoration surge from his chest and through his nervous system.

“Don’t you look so handsome, hm? Shall we go get some breakfast?” Jawn flapped his sleeves in response, hopping about pretending to be a bunny. Mycroft chuckled and led him from the room. “Off to new pastures, my darling kit.”

“What’s a kit?” Jawn asked curiously. The wide eyes gazing up at Mycroft were cute beyond description, and it created the sunniest smile Holmes was capable of.

“Why, a baby bunny, of course.” Jawn gasped.

“Yes! I’m a kit! Hop hop! Lock, look, I’m a kit!” Jawn burst into the kitchen on tiptoe, using the length of the sleeves to imitate long rabbit ears. He bounced around the tiles, landing roughly in daddy’s lap at the kitchen table who was no less breathless despite preparing for his tackle. Jawn giggled sheepishly, wriggling legs akimbo until he was seated more comfortably.

A plate was set before him, toast with jam spread evenly and right up to the corners, just how he liked. It was even cut into thin slices for him to munch on at his own leisure, requiring zero assistance from daddy, who was pleased not to have to get his fingers all sticky. Lock joined them with a bowl of the sugariest cereal they owned, seated opposite Jawn to watch him devour the sweet treat. Greg had already eaten and was nursing his second mug of tea when Mycroft sat down next to him, a written schedule in hand.

“‘Prise?”

“Indeed. Have you got your listening ears on?” Jawn tweaked his ears, leaving them coated in sticky jam residue. He didn’t seem to mind, missing the look of horrified disgust contort papa’s features. Daddy hid a snigger as he grabbed a wipe from the packet he’d retrieved for this very purpose. “Today we have a busy day.”

“Where goin’?” Jawn asked, holding still for daddy to remove the jam from his ears.

“Shh Jawn! Listen.” Lock demanded, index finger wagging in Jawn’s face accusingly. Watson nodded, serious and apologetic, turning back to papa to hear the rest.

“Good boy. We’re going to the creek today. We’ve never been before, but it’s just outside of the grounds near the forest.”

Lock appeared to have forgotten his own rule, for with a clatter of his spoon in his empty cereal bowl - and christ he’d eaten that fast - he launched into an info dump of all the potential wildlife they might find, explaining the various stages of frog development in a single breath. Jawn politely engaged, if not able to understand most of the gabble, although he was visibly enthralled and rearing to go. As Lock panted, Mycroft slipped in the last of the plans. Lock had already been made well aware of the itinerary, but he still listened in as if the information was new.

He could spend forever detailing the routine, something he usually had days to go over. This occasion he had all of one night to prepare. It was both exciting and terrifying, a dichotomy he only felt safe pursuing with his family. Jawn particularly liked the sound of a picnic on the embankment; he could picture the trickle of water and the tweeting of birds, imagining he was a young prince in a fairytale fit for Disney.  

“How’s that sound eh?” Daddy asked, dandling Jawn on his knee. The boy was beaming, almost vibrating on the spot, Lock quite prepared to follow suit in a heartbeat.

“Go now?”

“Soon as we sort the picnic out and get your wellies on we can go.” Daddy replied, managing to sneak in a single kiss to Jawn’s cheek before he was sliding from his lap to pounce at his little brother, the pair nattering nonsensically. Lock was relieved that the surprise was not a secret anymore, detailing everything they could do at the creek.

Mycroft simply sat back and observed for a moment, his partner standing behind him to place his hands over his shoulders. It was a treat watching the brothers egg each other on, their glee a breath of fresh air after weeks of drama and fighting. When the same boys turned to them with appalled disbelief that they still hadn’t moved, Mycroft had to get up. How very dare he relax when there was fun to be had? Silly papa!

“What would you like for lunch?” Papa asked, coming to stand at the counter where Sherlock had helpfully left out all that he’d need to make the perfect picnic, and some choices that were clearly Lock’s sneaky additions.

“Jam sandwiches!” Jawn declared without a single beat of hesitation. The smile on papa’s face faltered.

“You just had jam on toast for breakfast.” He said. Jawn blinked, unruffled. “Pick something else.”

“Jam. Sandwiches.” He stated plainly, as if papa hadn’t heard him the first time. His expression was contorted into a sternness more adorable than effective, but Mycroft relented nonetheless.

“It is his day,” Greg laughed, tousling Jawn’s hair. The little boy gazed upon papa with a brightly triumphant grin, knowing he’d won.

“Fine,” Mycroft sighed. “Don’t be surprised if you have a tummy ache later.”

“I’m sure he’ll live.” Greg sniggered. “Jam sandwiches it is!”

Jawn clapped his hands, his cheeks heated as he leant over Lock’s lap, awfully pleased with himself. A distraction was needed before he managed to convince them of all his other covets, and Mycroft knew just the thing to get him moving. “Is there anything you want to take with you to the creek? You don’t want to leave anything behind!”

“Oh! Toys?”

“None of your teddies, we don’t want to get them all wet.” Greg reminded. Jawn had no time to be crestfallen, however, for his hand was grasped by a determined Lock who yanked him from the room and toward the stairs, declaring a magnifying glass at the top of their list. Greg followed along, and Mycroft listened to the distant negotiation that ensued.

“No, we’re not taking that one. Let’s find the big one in your toy cupboard.”

Lock whined, the noise so loud it had to have induced a wince or two. “But this is my special detective one! We need it!” A thump marked the stamping of a foot. Mycroft was futile to stop the smile curling his lips.

“What if you lose it? That’d make Sherlock very sad, wouldn’t it? And then he couldn’t do his very important work.” There was a moment of silence, presumably Lock weighing the issue. His deliberation was as Greg hoped, and he slinked off to find his novelty one in his bedroom.

Mycroft finished packing their lunches into the picnic basket Greg had gifted him, a traditional wicker with fold up tops and buckled leather straps for plates and cutlery. He’d thanked Greg for the gift in some wonderfully creative ways that involved a house empty of children, unreachable phones and their bed, a ghost of a smile on his lips at the memory. His Greg was so good to him. The basket was set aside laden with sandwiches and snacks and a bottle of fizzy dandelion burdock that sat beside the small plastic tumblers and sippy cups lest the tots spill their drinks.

Preempting mayhem, Holmes also ensured their wellies were by the door alongside coats for the chilly weather and a backpack filled with supplies, spare clothes and most importantly: towels. Lots of towels. Old towels, poncho towels, flannels for hand washing and a bottle of hand sanitiser to top it all off. Greg had once remarked he packed like a woman on a weekend trip; that was, to say, over prepared. Mycroft couldn’t wait for the day the boys dirtied their clothes and Greg forgot to pack spares, snickering to himself as he slipped his own outerwear on.

Lock snuck up behind papa and wrapped his arms around his middle with a non sequitur. “I don’t wanna wear socks,”

“But?”

“Need socks with wellies. Feel icky.”

“Why don’t you wear your socks on the walk and then take them off when we get there?” Mycroft knew he was a genius, had been informed of such a fact incessantly since early childhood, but nobody complimented him more than Lock’s look of awe.

“Yeah! Good idea! Jawn too?”

“I’d say so, yes. He won’t want to splash in the creek with socks on!” That sounded equivalent to torture in Lock’s opinion and he faux shivered at the thought.

A haul was collected for their short adventure to new pastures, the equipment picked by little Holmes’ scientific eye but suited towards children. Jawn had selected a large rubber duck from their bath toy bucket alongside a snorkel. Greg was sniggering behind him when he caught Mycroft’s eye; neither of them were going to tell the little lad a snorkel would not be suitable for a creek. Lock had chosen three mason jars with metal clipped tops to seal whatever was collected safely inside, as well as two nets from their beach holiday and a large magnifying glass.

“Have we got everything we need?” Mycroft asked, taking Jawn’s items to add to the small pile. He hummed and nodded, making a bee line for his wellies with an expectant look pointed towards daddy.

Lock, however, gasped. “One more thing!” He darted out of the room, his paces slowing considerably near the stairs, and after a series of thumps and muffled movement he returned with a booklet and pen in hand.

“What dat?” Jawn asked, significantly younger than he had been minutes prior.

Lock thrust the booklet in his face. “A wildlife guide! We can tick off all the animals we find, see?” Indeed there were check boxes indicated beside photographs of various UK species of wildlife (and some invasive species) with a short description of what the animal was and where they might be found.

“Wow!” Jawn flipped through some of the pages. “Locky! Locky, look, we find froggies?”

“And toads!” Lock prodded at the adjoining page. Watson could almost faint from joy, bouncing on his toes to the point of vibration. His fathers laughed, daddy swooping him into his lap to wrestle one foot at a time into his – no surprise there – frog themed wellies. They were green, the front part which lay across his lower shin printed with pink rosy cheeks, two pip-shaped nostrils and a smile. On the edge of the hole at the top sat two round eyes that Jawn loved to manipulate by bending his ankles.

A windbreaker came next, sized up one so that the sleeves encased Jawn’s hands how he liked, that was zipped up to his chin. Next came a woollen headband that protected his ears from the wind, Lock’s thicker to work simultaneously as a sound muffler. When the boys were done, Lock declaring he was much too hot to need more than a cagoule, it was a matter of ushering them outside into the back garden.

“I have a surprise for you boys,” Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow from his partner. There were gasps, cheers and squeals when Holmes retrieved two objects from the shed.

“Another one?” Lock asked, dropping into a crouch to examine. “It’s different.”

“Quite so,” Mycroft pulled the new wagon closer to indicate inside. “There are seats for you and Jawn to sit in.”

“We ride together?” Jawn stage whispered, eyes wide and pinned on the wagon. Papa grinned, lifting him by the armpits to drop him into one of the padded seats. It was the perfect size, the seats parallel with space either side for Lock’s lanky legs to slot in comfortably.

“My turn! Help please!” Lock demanded, already hiking a leg up over the side. Daddy caught him just in time before he toppled, balance the equivalent of an inebriated toddler, the sparkle in his son’s eyes heart wrenching in all the best ways.

Mycroft hummed appreciatively. “You two look a sight! How’s it feel?”

Jawn replied with a shrill shriek and an applause, Lock flapping his hands for a brief moment. It was the greatest (and sweetest) lauding Mycroft would ever receive, in his opinion, even more so when he pulled the handle to begin motion. The giggles were high pitched and filled with sheer, unadulterated delight, though Holmes knew today the new wagon would not be used.

The boys were too hyper to sit still for the walk and would undoubtedly want to explore, so after a lap around the garden, daddy and papa switching to each have a go – and remarking how bizarrely easy it was to drag two grown men in a cart – they were lifted out and directed to their older wagon that was deplorable in comparison.

As Lock busied filling the bed of the wagon with their equipment, Jawn shyly approached papa with his sleeves drawn to his chest. “Are you okay darling?”

Jawn said not a word, instead pressing his shorter body flush against papa’s, cheek nuzzling his coat. Mycroft lifted him, legs slung haphazardly around his torso, arms reaching out to hug papa’s neck. “Th’nk you.”

“You are very welcome my love. We’re going to have a marvellous day.” A tender kiss was placed to Jawn’s forehead, who closed his eyes with a satisfied sigh and indulged in the moment that Mycroft was sure had just been photographed by his partner.

It had, and it was quickly becoming Greg’s favourite picture. Lock wanted no involvement in the cuddles, not when there were more interesting things to do, like, he reminded them, getting a move on. “No time to lose!” He yelled, taking off into a clumsy gallop with the wagon bobbing along behind him.

“What’s your brother like, hm? Silly thing.” Mycroft chuckled, bouncing Jawn. The tot giggled, a tired little noise that granted no effort. He was in no rush to be set on his own two feet, so after Greg collected the last of their things – and double then triple checked it all – and locked up the house, they followed along.

The creek was set back off their usual trail, not quite Mycroft’s land but a matter of metres from it. In all his time residing in the manor he had yet to see another human life venture near, for all the signage warning of trespassers tended to keep the fewer delinquents out that may have stumbled upon secluded land. Therefore it was the perfect place to take their boys; somewhere safe for them to play in a new environment away from the public eye and close to home.

Lock ditched the wagon, handle still perked in the air, to investigate a bush for rabbit droppings, shouting over his shoulder to Jawn that they must be close to finding a fluffle of kits, judging by the evidence among the shrubbery. Jawn slipped from papa’s hold, who had preempted the move and suitably loosened his grip, to allow the little boy to run for his brother.

“God. It’s such a dream to see them getting on again.” Greg said, reaching blindly for Mycroft’s hand. “I was worried they’d be fighting for months.”

“I didn’t believe so. They both still love each other too much to split. John’s put up with less of Sherlock’s antics. I suspect it all got a bit overwhelming, but they just needed a push in the right direction to get back on track.”

“Do you think it’s over then? All forgiven?” Greg’s thumb traced the web of flesh over Mycroft’s index knuckles.

Holmes squeezed his hand assuredly. “I do. I’m not sure Jawn would be so amenable right now if he was still angry,” Mycroft gestured toward their boys: Lock stood at his full height with his arms wrapped around Jawn’s middle, who had been lifted up to examine a tree.

“Careful, Lock. Don’t drop him.”

“I won’t!” Lock declared, letting Jawn’s body slide slowly to the ground again. The little doctor ran off in search of… something. Nobody was sure what. Probably not even he.

Despite trekking that very path almost as often as they were little at the manor, the tots always found a new object or sight of import that must be shared with their fathers. Whether that be a bird, a fallen tree from a storm, or perhaps the tiny footprints of native fauna, Lock kept out a keen eye to point things out to his younger brother.

Jawn didn’t have a mind palace, and Lock shared his with his adult self, though most of the rooms were barricaded if he ever decided to visit, a tactic Sherlock had developed when his younger self had stumbled upon The Hall of Bad Memories. He had his own room to fill with whatever trivia and preferences he liked, such as the many colourful bins filled with toys and makeup brands. Hidden behind a false wardrobe was a small forest in which he kept his knowledge of flora and fauna, ready to be filled with more information during his travels.

Watson never ceased to be baffled by the wealth of knowledge his big brother possessed, and the rate at which he could spew during impassioned speeches, for he had never developed his own memory technique. Sherlock had tried to teach him, once, but the tedium of collecting data and forming a place to store it all had become much too overwhelming when he had to build a mental lockbox for his troubled past and the memories in which haunted his psyche.

So it was no wonder he regarded Lock with wide, curious eyes, an awed smile plastered upon his cheeks as Holmes delivered a monologue about water-powered erosion and freeze-thaw weathering in creeks during the winter time, and how, as a result, they were bound to find some cool rocks to add to their flowerbed.

“Locky? Will there be froggies?” Jawn asked, clinging to Lock’s bicep with two hands.

Lock nodded empathetically, curls akimbo. “And maybe even tadpoles! That’s what the jars are for!”

Jawn whirled around, almost tripping over his own wellies to check their equipment was still nearby. Daddy was tugging it steadily behind him, the jars padded by a blanket that muffled the clinks of glass as the wheels of the wagon jolted on pebbles. They couldn’t forget the jars, they were the most important part! Lock promised to help him raise the tadpoles into frogs if he helped collect them, which seemed like a no brainer in Jawn’s head. A win-win scenario, as it were.

“Where now?” Lock spun on his heel as they reached the end of their usual route. It was a dead end, with no visible breaks in the shrubbery that would indicate a path. Papa took the lead, moving to the right where there was the smallest gap. He pulled branches out of the way to reveal a hidden strip of mud that made way for a cedar beam fence.

Papa hiked over it first, far more agile than Lock had ever seen him, before supporting Jawn under the armpits to lift him over. Lock clambered over in a graceless imitation of a newborn fawn, almost falling sideways where it not for papa rescuing him at the last second. He jumped up, walking off confidently as if the topple was intentional as Greg vaulted the top beam.

“Wrong way Lock,” Papa laughed, redirecting him backwards. Lock’s cheeks still hadn’t recovered from the shame of not appearing unflappable, unable to meet Jawn’s eye when he hopped at his side.

“Are we close yet?” Watson asked, stomping on any leaves that looked like they had the potential of a good crunch. Most did, others deceptively soft.

Papa pointed up ahead, finger pressed to his lips. The boys clambered to listen, ears pricked and necks craned, and there it was. Trickling water. Jawn made a short grunt-squeal that sounded more animalistic than human, and he bolted off toward the sound. “It’s here, it’s here! Lock come see!”

Lock followed along, wellies thumping on the dewy moss and snapping twigs in his wake. “Woah! Papa, daddy, look!”

“Oh wow, look at all this!” Daddy matched their enthusiasm with his own happy jig, one in which involved throwing Jawn into the air and spinning him around before pretending to dip him in the water.

Papa set the picnic basket down on the ground just in time to catch Jawn, who hurtled at him full-speed for a hug to express his gratitude. “Do you like it, little one?”

“Love it! So pretty,” He sang, wriggling to be put down so he could dash about the scene on the hunt for all things new and exciting. Lock was practically glued to his side as they explored, sharing between them a language no human would be able to translate, as Greg was sure the speed of their words broke the sound barrier.

“You did good, papa Holmes.” Lestrade teased; Mycroft jolted at the sneaky hand that had a good squeeze of his bum. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them this happy.”

“I think we all needed something to brighten us up,” he replied. “We best get their shoes off before they try swimming in it. It’s a lot muddier than I’d anticipated.”

“It’s only mud, dear. I’ll hose them down later.” Greg jogged off to apprehend their boys before Lock indeed sent Jawn backstroking down the creek.

Holmes was holding Jawn by the torso and dangling him over the edge of the grass, the tips of his wellingtons skimming the water. “Can we play in the water, daddy?”

“Course we can! Wellies and socks off first though. Unless you want to go hunting first?”

“Hunting first!” Lock decided, grasping Jawn’s hand to tug him away from the water and towards the litany of trees dotted around the embankment. Daddy paused, checking with Jawn that it was something he also wanted to do, but he just shrugged and skipped away.

The team effort disbanded shortly after the beginning of their expedition, mostly because Lock found a bee that he had to follow which Jawn was absolutely not in favour for when there was evidence of a nearby hive. Lock stalked the fluffy insects with ease, scrambling through bramble and crawling through mossy bark with grunts and groans along the way, magnifying glass at the ready. Jawn was quite happy to set up his own detective bureau of wildlife discovery as far away as possible from Lock’s hive, and it was there he found something he’d always dreamed of.

“Daddy!” He whispered urgently, so not to startle his findings but clearly display his eagerness. “Come quick!”

“What’ve you found spud?” Daddy stepped closer, papa keeping an eye on their other boy, who was now frolicking around pyracanthas. Holmes saw the expression on his partner’s face transform from amused indulgence to genuine surprise.

Even Mycroft was intrigued. “What is it?”

Jawn positively beamed, hopping from one foot to another as he pointed repeatedly at a shifting pile of leaves. “A hedgehog pa’! Can I hold him? Please? Pretty please?”

Greg’s face portrayed a look that could only be translated as a ‘why not?’ that had Mycroft instantly panicked. Jawn was sent to stand beside papa, though he was too jolly to stand still, bouncing up and down on the spot, shaking off papa’s hand from his shoulder. Lestrade ducked under the shrubbery for a moment, cursing just loud enough for Mycroft to pick up on as he pricked his finger on one of the spines.

He gave up, standing to his full height to yell. “Lock?” Younger Holmes emerged from behind a tree with a grin. “How do you pick a hedgehog up?”

“Cup it from underneath,” Lock recited merrily, demonstrating with air. “Careful not to frighten it or it’ll curl up and won’t come back out!”

“Gotcha. Thank you Mr Wildlife Expert!” Lock saluted, before the question sunk in and he sauntered closer.

“There’s a hedgehog?”

Jawn jumped up in the air several times. “Yeah, I found it!”

Lock’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Jawn found a Jawn?”

“Hey, I not a hedgehog!” He grumped, crossing his arms. He wasn’t exactly intimidating, and Mycroft would even argue he was the least intimidating man in the world right now, with his puffed-up bum and his dungarees and frog wellies and his hair all spiked from his ear warmer.

“Yes you are, look at your hair! Even daddy say so.” Said daddy was fixed with a rather stern glare that he had the decency to look sheepish about, and Jawn threw his ear warmer off to press his hair flat. Lock’s smug smile was wiped clean by the shock of one tiny creature being lifted carefully. “It’s alive!”

“Shh, don’t want to scare him!” Jawn batted at Lock’s arm and held a finger to his lips like papa had earlier. “I wanna hold him.”

“Can I hold too?” Lock asked, pulling Jawn in for a random side hug, who begrudged the embrace whilst still flattening his hair to his scalp. On the condition that they both keep the volume down and didn’t try to poke the spines, each boy was given a turn at handling the hedgehog.

“So cute! I wanna kiss him.” Jawn said. He had the hedgehog cupped in his hands, a careful manoeuvre from daddy’s palms to his, and was observing from a small distance at papa’s command.

“It would be a bit of a prickly kiss!” Daddy exclaimed, laughing. Jawn giggled, briefly looking up at his father with the brightest grin, his full set of teeth on display. It was a moment papa wanted to cherish forever, and with a bit of sneakiness (as Jawn wasn’t always partial to having his photo taken) he managed to snap several photos, though his favourite, and the one he’d have printed and hung on Jawn’s side of the bedroom, was of the exact moment the hedgehog peered over his fingers as daddy made him laugh.

Lock was exceptionally patient as he waited for his turn, allowing Jawn a moment to absorb in the soft downy fur of the hedgehog’s underbelly, the squishiness of the toe pads and tiny nails atop each, the ticklish snuffle of his teeny nose and the twinkle of beady eyes watching curiously. He was, even with a toddler brain, surprised that the animal didn’t shy away at all the human contact and the borderline shrill giggles Jawn was producing every few seconds.

When it was his turn to hold he allowed daddy to do the transfer, keeping his hands flat and open so not to startle the hedgehog. Jawn hopped around them, the delight in his soul effervescing into a grin that could not be removed, even if he wanted. Lock was also amazed to be given the chance to hold a real-life one, a marvel in comparison to Scottie the toy hedgehog, albeit less cuddly, but he managed to keep his excitement under control.

“What shall we call him?” Papa asked, leaning down to get a good look. The hedgehog sniffed at the air, craning his tiny body over Lock’s fingertips to observe.

There was only one answer in Lock’s mind. “Jawny.”

“Jawny the hedgehog. I like it!” Daddy lauded, catching the hedgehog’s namesake mid jump to tip him upside down. “Jawn and Jawny. The crime fighting duo!”

“What about me?” Whinged Lock amidst Jawn’s screeches of joy. “I’m a detective!”

Daddy smoothly amended his declaration. “Jawn and Jawny and Locky. Crime fighting trio!”

“And daddy,” Jawn added. “Daddy’s a de’ctive too!”

“Christ we’ll be here all day! Time to put Jawny back now boys, he’s got to go home.”

“Aw why?” Jawn whined, the perfect moue instantly appearing on his face. “I don’t wan’ him t’go.”

“It’s time he had his lunch, spud. Don’t want him missing from his family too long. What if he has baby Jawnies?” That was a logic the tot couldn’t argue with, though he didn’t have to be happy about it. After one final pet – a fingertip to the nose – Jawny was placed exactly where he was found and left to snaffle at some insects in peace.

“Bye bye Jawny,” Watson waved, before he gasped and turned to his brother. “The wide-life guide!”

“Oh yeah!” The pair bolted to the wagon that contained the wildlife checklist, snatching up a pen as they flipped through the pages eagerly. “There!”

“Can I do it?” Jawn asked, peering over Lock’s arm.

“Yeah!” Lock shoved the pen into Jawn’s chest a tad too vigorously, but the tot didn’t seem to mind. After ticking off the European hedgehog, Jawn waited for Lock to find the various insect species he’d discovered during his – albeit short – travels so he could tick each one off, though he needed help reading the short descriptions below the photographs.

“Now can we go in the water?” Lock asked, wandering around in circles after Jawn took hostage of the wildlife guide.

Papa inclined his head in affirmation, snaring Lock’s arm before he could hurtle headfirst into the creek. “Of course. Socks off first, and Jawn, pop your ear warmer back on. I don’t want water getting in your ears.”

Lock needed to process the feeling of his bare feet in the water to which nobody contested, and after a rudimentary check to ensure they were no sharp stones or glass among the sediment, he was set free to explore. Wading through the glassy liquid was soothing, Lock found, unlike a bath yet just as calming. The water cut around his ankles, forming whirlpools around his toes and disrupting the current. He was lost in his own world, a world of tranquility, regression helping to silence his racing mind. For one blessed moment, his brain was calm.

Jawn, though more energetic, did not want to encroach on the unusual comportment of his brother, so he held back, clothes stripped until he was left in just his nappy. He collected a jar from the wagon, and with daddy’s hand clasped tightly around his, they trailed the embankment in search of life. Mycroft kept watch of his sibling, the boy pacing back and forth along a several metre strip, head tipped down as he searched.

What he was after was initially unclear, until his eyes lit up, just briefly, hair illuminating an auburn brown under a ray of sunshine, and he ducked, bum nearly grazing the water. He pulled up again, tucking the mystery item in his pocket to repeat his pacing. Twice more he conducted a duck-and-tuck, after which he approached his father and brother, and Mycroft followed suit.

“What doin’?” Lock asked, crouching to see. Jawn didn’t answer, eyes tracking the grass, until he gasped and tapped at daddy’s arm desperately. Without anyone speaking Greg managed to locate a toad and – gently, he didn’t want to hurt the poor thing – grabbed it for the boys to get a good look. Another tick in their wildlife guide, which Mycroft had on hand like a scrub nurse.

And then Jawn realised. With toads came frogs, and with frogs came tadpoles. He inched painstakingly along until, with a momentous cheer, he found some. Lock tried his best not to sprint over and frighten them off, keeping his feet firmly under the water, and upon reaching Jawn’s side he dropped to his knees. Together they scooped up as many as possible into the jar; Jawn holding open the lid, Lock herding them in like a handsy border collie.

“Are they frogs or toads?” Jawn asked as daddy clasped the lid shut.

Lock held up the jar to the light and hummed. “Toads.”

Jawn scrambled closer, two hands curled over Lock’s raised forearm. “How do you know?”

“Three things!” Lock pointed to one of the tadpoles, his finger following its movement. “They got bulkier heads, shorter tails and they got darker bellies than frogs.” Jawn stared at him as though he were the deliverer of all good things, leaning up to give his brother’s cheek a warm, albeit wet kiss.

Lock insisted they take the tadpoles home to grow into frogs, which sent a shiver down Mycroft’s spine that he ignored. Only for that they would be home for the next fortnight – potentially longer if he could convince them – and would be making more regular visits did he agree, under the condition that they create a proper environment for them to develop. He would rather not deal with toddler tantrums because they accidentally killed the whole school of tadpoles.

And just like that, the peace was over with. The tadpoles were set reverently in a blanket, propped up by various other items with the lid slightly ajar to allow oxygen before the tots were charging at the water screeching. They kicked at the water, sending sprays of it every which way until daddy yanked Lock from the water to give him a perfunctory strip like Jawn to avoid sullying his clothes. Play fighting ensued, neither boy winning beyond soaking the other with cries about the icy temperatures, Jawn nearly taking a topple over a rock.

The scare regressed him lower, reducing his speech to no more than monosyllabic words and noises, which was just as effective in his communicational skills. He strayed from Lock, who was just as happy playing by himself, to sit down bum-first in the water, legs jutted out in front. His nappy was a goner, that was for sure, but at least if he needed the toilet the water would whisk it away. That’s what papa told himself as reassurance.

“I’m gunna go sit with him for a bit. Do you mind watching Lock?” Greg kissed Mycroft’s forehead as he stood, shucking off his jeans to reveal a pair of swimming trunks, his shirt thrown in a heap.  

“Course not,” Holmes replied easily. “I’ll get lunch sorted.”

Daddy came bearing gifts. One was a dummy (how had daddy known?) that was taken gratuitously with a smile around the shield, and the other was the large rubber duck Jawn had stolen from their collection of bath toys. Lestrade seated himself opposite, their feet nearly touching, so that he could throw the duck towards his son. If Jawn didn’t catch it, the duck bobbed along downstream where Greg was able to toss it back, thus beginning a game of catch.

“Are you having fun Jawn?” The little boy nodded, one hand swishing through the water, the other hovering in stead to catch the duck.

Meanwhile Lock was back to collecting items from the water, picking up various stones and rocks. Mycroft wandered close by, remaining quiet unless Lock spoke. “Did you know a third of the water taken from rivers is wasted?”

“I did not,” Papa said. “That’s not good at all.”

“Maybe you should tell your government friends to do something about it.” Lock said, deadpan.

“I’ll look into it, dear boy. What have you got there?” Lock held out his haul for Mycroft to inspect, distractedly searching for more. “Oh, you’ve got some lovely rocks there.”

“And some petrified wood… does that mean the wood was scared?” Mycroft’s papa heart swelled by the innocence in Lock’s voice.

“No darling,” he chuckled warmly. “It just means the wood has hardened. It’s called ossification.”

“But all wood is hard?”

“Can you see how this is different, though? Let’s compare our samples.” Mycroft guided Lock to the remains of a tree stump still staked proudly in the ground, and they squatted. “Can you feel? Your piece is much harder and heavier, a bit like stone.”

“Oh yeah! How?”

“This piece of wood must have come from one of these trees,” Mycroft indicated around them, Lock swivelling his head with wide eyes. “and fallen into the water. It will have gotten trapped under all the sediment. Do you know what sediment is?”

“This!” Lock proclaimed, pointing to his findings.

“That’s right,” Papa lauded with a smile. “So the wood was buried beneath all that sediment and protected from decay, and eventually it was calcified.”

“Cah-sih-fied?” Mycroft corrected him, but he still wasn’t able to manage the word, and they gave up. “What about my rocks?”

“You know about the rocks, don’t you? Why they’re smooth?”

“Erosion!”

Papa beamed, eliciting a blush across Lock’s cheeks, the pale skin enhancing his rosy glow. “Exactly! You clever boy. What about animals? Can you tell me what species you might find in a creek or a river?”

“Lots pa! Water boatman insects are everywhere, I seen loads already, an’ an’ water voles, and fishies like salmon and trout!” Lock spewed in a rush, almost panting in a bid to get all the information out.

“What about birds?” Papa asked.

“Erm, oh! There’s kingfishers an’ herons!”

“You love kingfishers don’t you darling?”

“Pretty colours,” Lock sang dreamily. He flipped through the wildlife guide until he found the page he was looking for, which he jabbed at enthusiastically. “And we have newts and frogs and toads, but! We have otters!”

“Odder?” Jawn asked from afar. “Where?” A cursory search came up empty, and he slumped, disappointed.

“Not here Jawn, in a river!” Lock exclaimed.

Jawn frowned. “This nod a river?”

“No, this is a creek.”

Jawn frowned harder. “Wha’s da diff’ence?”

“Creeks are smaller and more shallow,” Lock answered with pride. “And they got no trib-u-ties.”

“Close! Tributaries.” Papa corrected. Jawn blinked. “Lock, can you tell Jawn what that means?”

“It just means it doesn’t branch out anywhere. Like how rivers got baby rivers comin’ off them? Creeks don’t have that.”

“Oh.” Jawn said with a shrug. “So no odders?”

“No otters,” Lock shook his head sadly. “But we can cuddle Lottie an’ Otto when we get home.”

“That’s a great idea, spud. Now come play with me and Jawn so your pa’ can get our picnic ready.” Daddy said, beckoning Jawn closer with those wonderfully welcoming arms. Lock first dumped his rocks and petrified wood into the wagon to take home – mindful not to jostle the tadpoles – before leaning up to kiss Mycroft on the cheek.

“Love you pa’.” He smiled shyly, his cheeks still marvellously flushed.

Mycroft pecked his temple in response. “Love you too sweetheart. Off you pop!”

Lock stumbled out of the water fifteen minutes later exhausted but repleted. He plonked down on a laid-out towel with a grunt, sticking his toes out to air dry. Mycroft tutted, knowing his soles were likely to be a source of discomfort if the mud caked to the skin dried. He slipped out a damp flannel to clean his feet carefully, avoiding the most sensitive spots by applying firm pressure. Once Lock’s feet were spotless and blessedly dry papa slipped on his socks from the walk up. Lock preferred socks over bare feet, unlike Sherlock, who was the kind of autist that tolerated socks as a necessity. 

“Better?” Papa asked, warm palm cupped over one of Lock’s ankles. The boy nodded and allowed his sibling to lay him down prostrate so that the rest of his body could be dried. Lock’s nappy had gotten soggy around the leg holes where he had knelt in the water and puffed up rather obscenely.

Lock was quiet, head turned to watch Jawn kicking the water at daddy, who shrieked indignantly and threatened to dunk him head-first. As he observed, content to take a break, papa took care of his transport, replacing the nappy with a fresh one – noting to buy a pack of waterproof nappies for future excursions – and wiping a wonderfully soft towel over the wetness of his twinkling skin. Legs dried, Lock raised his hips for his shorts to be slid up his thighs snugly and adjusted, then plonked back down, legs eagle spread. Mycroft left him be; he was still panting from all the running round and could use the fresh air on his bare chest to cool down.

“Papa, papa, look!” Mycroft dreaded what he might find when he raised his eyes, and was pleasantly amused to see the pale flesh of his youngest son glinting in the sunlight. Jawn giggled, kicking his legs, bum rested on daddy’s forearm as he was carried back to dry land. “I nakey!”

“So you are,” Mycroft chuckled. “Where’s your nappy?”

Daddy raised the offending item to display its uselessness, now thrice its original size and dripping, then dropped it to the floor with a hilariously loud splat! “Too wet pa’.”

“I see that. Let’s get you dried off.” Mycroft took Jawn from Greg’s arms wriggling and laughing to swamp him in his poncho towel. The first move in order was for his crotch to be donned in a fresh nappy before an accident could occur (or Jawn decided it was a great idea to pee naked onto the grass).

In the meantime daddy helped a struggling Lock redress in his firetruck t-shirt with his cagoule over the top. A part of his autism was the inability to properly regulate his body temperature, which meant he could easily switch from one extreme to the other in a matter of seconds. During the short interaction he’d gone from hot and clammy to shivering and in dire need of layers; any hint of sunlight and he would be at risk of overheating again and would have to strip his jacket off.

Almost immediately upon poking his hands through the sleeves did Lock clasp one of the mason jars to tap at the glass, beckoning the writhing tadpoles closer. He was tired, reaching a point of sensory overload that he still had chance to pull back from if he was given time to calm down. Greg tugged him into his lap, knowing with sensory overload he needed deep, firm pressure to recalibrate his sensory input.

Without a weighted blanket or the familiarity of his bedroom, Lock settled for the scent of daddy’s soap and lightly applied cologne (never strong when Lock was around, lest it trigger a migraine), muscled arms pinning him back-to-chest; not restrictive, just a visceral reassurance. Tactile input sorted, Greg checked Lock’s ear warmer hadn’t shifted during playtime, but both ears were still hidden behind the thick wool, curls slightly sweaty around the band.

“Okay?”

Lock nodded, pressing further into his lap, mouth yearning for something to chew on. He compromised by gnawing at the zip of his cagoule, hearing a distant tut seconds before a dummy was slipped between his lips. Rather than suckling, as he would usually, he began to chew at the silicone, the guard shifting when his tongue manipulated the teat to volley between his back molars.

“Pa?” Jawn asked, peering over the man’s shoulder as he popped one foot after the other into his dungarees. He held onto Mycroft’s shoulders, who knelt at his feet and held out the clothes.

“Yes love?”

“Is Lock sad?” Mycroft glanced over, assessing the situation quicker than Jawn could even comprehend the movement of his eyes.

Jawn’s eyebrows were furrowed with concern, one hand raised for his teeth to worry at. Mycroft tugged it free. “I think he’s a little bit overwhelmed. Shall we be quiet for a while?”

“Okay. Do you think he’s hungry? I can get him some snacks!”

“That would be very kind of you, love dove. First things first: socks or not?”

“Mm,” Jawn tapped his chin. “No socks!”

“No socks it is.” Mycroft rose to his feet, patting Jawn’s padded bum on the way up. “Come help me with Lock’s snacks, then.”

Jawn’s stomach growled the second he laid his eyes on the feast papa had painstakingly set out for them, dropping onto the picnic blanket to wait for instructions. Lock paid no attention, though that was usual during mealtimes, his gaze trained on the tadpoles. Jawn, with papa’s explicit permission, carefully gathered tidbits on a plate, bite-sized finger foods he could nibble at leisurely, before gently setting it down at Lock’s feet.

“Eat a little bit, please?” His voice raised at the end in question, sharing a hopeful expression with daddy. Lock eyed his lunch for a moment, long deliberating seconds in which Jawn waited, patient, a smile forming when the mason jar was placed aside.

“Let me clean your hands before you touch that, darling,” Daddy said, using a baby wipe to wash creek water off his fingers. Lock tolerated the sensation and had a try of some pork pie. He hummed, munching away, dummy abandoned in his lap. Success!

Jawn crawled back to papa’s side to eat his own lunch that had been arranged for him, needing no prompt to wolf his food down. All that running and playing had built up quite the appetite that was quenched by a variety of treats between bites of his jam sandwich. Daddy kept Lock curled in his lap, knees now drawn to his chest, and ate around him, one arm always encircled around his middle.

Papa had the blessed opportunity to eat an entire meal without once having to attend to a toddler. Jawn ate independently one-handed, the other poking at his bare toes and his eyes glazed over, staring into the middle distance. He was clearly in his own little world and, Mycroft deduced, likely needed a few minutes to calm down from all the excitement too. He didn’t need to be autistic to require a moment to himself.

Lock was already improving, having come back from the teetering edge of sensory overload by the skin of his teeth, now taking an interest in his food. Daddy was murmuring into his ear, his breath not irking when protected by his ear warmer, and occasionally Lock would smile and tilt his head back against daddy’s shoulder. He eventually stretched his legs out languidly that indicated he was alright and would be ready to continue playing as soon as he was finished munching.

Jawn, on the other hand, had polished off his portion and was pawing at the bottle of fizzy Mycroft had tucked into the basket. He already had a cup prepared, a lidded sippy cup littered with bunnies riding foxes and hedgehogs among tufts of grass that he gulped at as if it were the essence to de novo energy. Mycroft shook his head; there was scarce use in warning about upset tummies, for Jawn never listened anyway, and ignored him in favour of supplying Lock and Greg with their own drinks.

“Are you having a good day Jawn?” Daddy asked, holding Lock’s cup for him. Jawn nodded enthusiastically, bouncing on his bum, toes wriggling.

“Best day ever! We not going home yet?”

“No darling. Why don’t we play snakes and ladders? I brought your outdoors one!” Jawn perked up again, bounding over on all fours to haul the box from the wagon and dump the contents on the grass. The ‘board’ was printed on a PVC mat almost the same length as Jawn laid down, foam discs of four colours for each player and one inflatable dice to throw about.

Lock’s interest was captured by the discs, snatching one up to lick experimentally. It tasted awful but the texture was somewhat enjoyable: crosshatched on one side and smooth on the other, a marvel for his tongue to explore. At the first sign of chewing it would be removed, but for now neither parent saw the harm in allowing him the tactile exploration.

Daddy started laughing when he spotted Jawn’s poor attempt at blowing up the dice. He huffed, throwing it at daddy to help, arms crossed with a moue that slowly evolved into a tepid smile at his own antics. He chose the green coloured disc – Lock slobbering over the blue one – which left red and orange for the couple. They got started as soon as Greg inflated the dice, tossing it back to Jawn for the first roll.

Mycroft, in the meantime, had tidied away their dishes, well aware of how boisterous two littles could become, their competitive sides holding no regard for their surroundings. He’d brought a bag for their used plates so that they would not sully his spotless basket, slotting the lot in with a wrinkle, refilling their cups to ensure the tedious tasks were completed and he could focus his attention on the game.

“What!” Lock exclaimed. “Jawn got a ladder on the first go!”

“He did, didn’t he? Good job darling!” Mycroft applauded, Greg scooting he and Lock closer to ruffle his hair. Jawn wriggled happily, cheeks aflame with a shy smile that complimented the pleased twinkle in his eye. He scooted his disc up to the box marked 27, then threw the dice at Lock.

They went in a circle, Jawn happy to move everyone’s discs on their behalf, Lock reluctant to let go of his for he could no longer lick at the foam. It was midway through the game, Jawn having hit two snakes and currently placed almost back at the beginning, laughing about the absurdity of his bad luck, that Lock became distracted. He couldn’t shake the insistent voice in his head that the dice would make a spectacular football, and that he should bop it on his head to test the bounciness.

Inevitably, he relented. Extracting his body from daddy’s lap took a fair bit more effort than he expected, but with a heave and a haul of lanky limbs he was free and crawling off at breakneck speed to the empty space Jawn had vacated from lunchtime to play with the dice. There was a problem, however. Lock’s hypothesis was confirmed, at the very least, that the dice was indeed delightfully bouncy and could, potentially, be used as a football. The aforementioned issue rose when he tested said hypothesis, launching the dice in the air to rebound off his forehead. It ricocheted much farther than he’d predicted, landing with a plop and a tiny splash in the creek.

“Uh oh!” Jawn cried, hopping to his feet. Lock watched on, intrigued, as the dice caught the current and began hurtling downstream remarkably fast, spinning when it collided with bigger rocks and skimming easily over sediment.

Mycroft pinched at the bridge of his nose, deeming it a lost cause, Lock daring a sheepish glance in his direction. Greg wasn’t quite as pessimistic, and after yanking Jawn up by the armpits, pointed toward the dice and released, in his best battle cry, a command to follow suit. Jawn did, bless his heart, dashing down the embankment and straight into the water, ankle deep and shrieking at the temperature.

“Watch his feet on the stones!” Mycroft chided, heart in his mouth, but Greg was far from worried, watching with an almost manically gleeful smile. Jawn chased the current easily, the water not deep enough to slow him down beyond the disturbing amount of splashing that had surely soaked his dungarees, waterproofing be damned.

“Got it!” Jawn thrust the dice into the air with a decent air of smug triumph not even Mycroft could fault, and he ambled back, hopping over rocks to take daddy’s hand. Greg pulled him from the water into an embrace, declaring him the king of the creek, and together they made their way back to the blanket.

Jawn dropped the dice in Lock’s lap, his grin wide and his chest heaving with large gulps of air. Lock looked up at him as if he’d hung the moon and stars, adoration clear across his entire expression; tongue poked shyly between his teeth, which were ajar in surprise. Greg was certain they were witnessing Lock full-on swoon, although he debated whether Jawn pretended not to notice or was genuinely oblivious as he sauntered away, awful proud of his heroic action, and plonked on his bum to continue.

“What do we say Lock?” Mycroft prompted, not wanting to watch another agonising second of Lock’s brain fry. Holmes physically shook himself out of the trance he had befallen, cheeks flushed.

He dipped his head, curls haloing his skull. “Thank you.”

“Welcome Lock. That was fun!”

The game of snakes and ladders was over. Their game had been abandoned for a new one; a game that Lock had to remove his socks for, because he and Jawn were going to imitate the accident by deliberately sending the dice careening downstream only to fetch for it with giggles, racing one another. Greg sidled up to his partner, soaking in every last snuggle he could gain before he was needed by his sons.

“They’re awfully cute when they’re not killing each other.” Greg remarked, resting his head on his partner’s shoulder.

“I give it ten minutes.” Mycroft betted. His palms supported his weight from behind, legs sprawled out straight in front, and when Greg’s temple landed upon his shoulder he lay his cheek atop his hair. It smelled of their shared shampoo, some ridiculously expensive brand Mycroft had helpfully provided after he’d thrown out all of Greg’s toiletries when he first moved in.

The boys splashed about until the temperature cooled too much to find it conscionable to allow them to continue. Grey clouds overcast the sun and threatened to dump a downpour over their heads, and there was a mutual decision to get home before that happened. Jawn seemed to have reached the end of his energy reserves too, as he was rounded up by daddy without fuss, whereas Lock was loathe to leave when he hadn’t finished playing yet. Jawn wasn’t too soaked, aside from a wee he’d done secretly at some point, so after a quick change they didn’t see the need in swapping his clothes.

Lock kicked up a riot as they got up to vacate the area, kicking stones and twigs with high pitched whinging noises. He was overtired and if they didn’t stop now he would surely become overwhelmed; they’d already avoided one meltdown today and they weren’t going to push their luck. Holmes, despite his protests, followed at a substantial pace behind, even refusing help climbing over the fence. The second go around he didn’t almost fall flat on his face, but there was a persistent furrow to his brows.

Jawn had a slink to his step not unlike Lock’s, but his was not borne of frustration, rather sheer exhaustion. Daddy took pity, swooping in to perch him on one solid hip. Jawn melted against his torso, thumb creeping toward his mouth until a dummy intercepted as if by magic. The pair of tots would be due a nap, pronto, as soon as they got home, and as they ambled back to the house, Lock slipping a hand into Mycroft’s wordlessly, not wanting to be left out, Greg was sure he’d never felt happier.

They were roughly halfway home when the clouds from earlier brushed past, first with a spit of rain easily ignored, then, within seconds, waxing density until they were caught in near torrential rain. Jawn squawked, pressing his face into daddy’s chest and clinging on tight. Lestrade flung their hoods up, his pace quickening in a bid to get home before they were soaked through. Mycroft did the same with Lock, who was the only member of the family to appear happy by their predicament, for he skipped and gabbled unintelligibly.

They reached the front door dripping and disgruntled. Papa sent them around the back with the task to set out their jars on the table where they would be safe, and to empty the wagon whilst he unlocked the doors and drew a bath. Daddy was on baby watch, Jawn sliding from his body to walk independently, dummy bobbing rhythmically. Lock took his hand, their fingers intertwined, and at first Greg remarked the cuteness, the fact that his boys were once again a unit as they worked together to do as papa asked.

And then it all went Pete Tong.

“Oh your papa is gunna kill me.” The source of his misery cackled.

In the single second Greg had turned to eye the backdoor, Lock had taken Jawn into the centre of the garden where the grass was waterlogged and decided it was a good idea to tackle him. Though Jawn wasn’t crying, one could mistake the brown tears streaked down his face for that of sorrow. His outfit was caked in mud, splatters of it in his hair, inside his wellies and how on earth did he get it under his nails?

Papa was not quite murderous, but it was a close thing. He simply stared, wondering how five minutes could sully his lovely little boys more than a forested creek could in a whole day. Lock started rolling about in a muddy puddle, another of which Jawn was dispelling by jumping into the way Peppa Pig would. It was, unfortunately, still too cold to stand the pair against the brick like a set of prisoners and hose them down, but there was a similar alternative.

Lestrade most enjoyed playing warden, removing clothes and jackets and wellies until he had two toddlers stripped nude and shrieking. Two buckets of (mostly) warm water were sluiced against them, effectively washing away the worst of the mud. Lock shut his jaws with an audible click the moment it was opened in protest – he had, in fact, been the culprit in the first place, which he only slightly regretted.

“Bath time, boys. Get those wet bums inside before you catch your death!”

“Yes grandma!” Lock theatrically rolled his eyes, then swooped Jawn up to carry him to the bath. He would hear no arguments on the matter, and Jawn was just along for the ride, dropping his cheek down to rest against a bony shoulder.

“Lock?” Jawn mumbled into his skin.

“Hm?” He replied.

“Thank you. For today. You did good. Really good.” Lock froze, his legs walking mechanically but his mind stuck on the compliment. Jawn pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I love you. This was the best day ever.”

He smiled. “I love you too.”