Work Text:
There is the sound of tearing paper and a huge mess being made behind them as Sherlock drags John into the kitchen.
“Sherlock, what are you –,” John starts, but Sherlock cuts him off with a hand over his mouth. John lets his eyes express his indignation for him.
Sherlock speaks in a harsh, rapid whisper. “John, she is six years old. I don’t understand how you can even consider continuing on with this ridiculous Father Christmas charade. She may not be biologically mine, but Mina’s mind is just as sharp and she cannot possibly be as stupid as you think she is.”
John smiles behind Sherlock’s hand at what is basically the highest compliment Sherlock can offer, then pushes the hand aside so he can speak.
“Sherlock, it’s harmless. They talk about it constantly in school, and she’s drawn pictures and things, it’s just fun for children. She’ll tell us when she figures it out, that’s all.”
Sherlock takes a breath to argue further, but they are interrupted by a gleeful shout in the sitting room. John gives Sherlock a meaningful look as they head out of the kitchen, and Sherlock sulks in reply. Mina doesn’t notice either of these things, because she’s looking through the eyepiece of a child-sized microscope, not caring at all that the stage is absolutely empty. “Daddy, look!” she shouts, finally looking up and pointing excitedly at the microscope. John grins at her and picks her up.
“Do you like what Father Christmas brought you?” he asks as she struggles, trying to get back to the microscope.
“Yes, yes, I do, but now I have to go do a ‘spearmint!” she replies, trying in vain to get her little body back onto the ground. Sherlock takes pity on her, lifting her out of John’s arms and places her gently back on the sitting room floor. She looks up at him with her best puppy-dog look. “Papa, can we do a ‘spearmint?” John and Sherlock look at each other, smiles tugging at the corners of their lips.
Spearmint was actually a new one, and John was struggling not to burst out laughing. Her earlier iterations of the word had included ess-per-mint, ex-perts and, memorably, murder. They had gotten a lot of calls from the daycare when she had told them all that, “Papa’s job is to do murders!” Sherlock had had to have a long talk with her about committing a murder and the differences between that and solving a murder. Spearmint was definitely a welcome change.
Sherlock picked her up in one arm, the microscope in the other, and headed into the kitchen, giving John a this-conversation-isn’t-over look on his way out. John sighed and began cleaning up the explosion of wrapping paper.
A few days later, John catches Mina scrutinizing one of his handwritten rough drafts for blog entries. Her reading level is far beyond her years (probably Sherlock’s doing), but he still tries to avoid having her read violent, potentially scary things. He rushes over to try and stop her, but from the way her eyes are moving, he realizes she isn’t actually reading the entry at all.
“Mina, sweet pea, what are you doing?” he asks, trying to figure out why she’s so carefully examining the paper. Her small blond head shoots up as if she’s been caught out doing something bad. She hesitates, then lies, “I just like your handwriting, Daddy!”
He can tell she’s lying, but he can’t figure out what incriminating thing she could possibly be doing that involves looking at a rough draft, so he lets it go, determined to figure it out as soon as possible. He waves her off, and she skitters away, everything about her screaming guilty. John shakes his head, then bends to the task of trying to edit the blog entry before typing it up.
***
Soon enough, the winter holidays end and Mina is sent back to first grade.
Sherlock looks guiltily relieved at being able to go back to his regular experiments, but John actually understands, for once. Every single item of paper with his handwriting on it has been taken out and hastily put back by Mina. The only reason he can tell is because while Sherlock may have taught her the arts of lying and subterfuge, she’s still only six years old and has yet to properly get the hang of them (adolescence is going to be terrifying, he can tell already). He still hasn’t done anything about it, because as far as he can tell, she’s not doing anything wrong. The guilt is coming purely from her side, and he doesn’t understand what’s going on in the slightest.
He hasn’t wanted to bother Sherlock about it yet, but he’s starting to wonder if he’s going to need his consulting detective after all. To investigate their daughter.
He shakes his head at what his life has become, then heads towards the kitchen holding the latest piece of incriminating evidence in his hands.
He finds Sherlock sitting at his own, adult-sized microscope, observing what looks like… onion cells?
“Sherlock, why are you looking at something so completely useless?” he asks, the paper in his hand suddenly pushed from his mind.
“I’m preparing slides for Mina. What, did you think I was going to be showing her blood spatter patterns right away? I’m waiting until at least the third grade for that,” Sherlock says distractedly, adjusting the cover slip on the slide. John opens his mouth to argue that the third grade is probably not that much more appropriate than the first, but Sherlock gets there first. “Besides, that’s not what you came in here to ask me. What’s Mina done now?”
John shakes his head at his husband’s mind-reading skills before handing over the old copies of his prescriptions in his hands. “That’s the thing. I have absolutely no idea why what she’s doing is wrong.”
Sherlock examines the paper. “Then why do you think it’s wrong?”
John heaves a frustrated sigh. “Because she seems to think it is! She’s been examining everything in this flat with my handwriting on it, and whenever I catch her at it she gets this guilty look on her face and immediately flees!”
Sherlock is still turning the paper over in his hands. There’s a moment where he seems frozen in place, and then his face lights up in revelation. For once, however, he says absolutely nothing.
“What, Sherlock?” John prompts, waiting for the string of brilliant deductions that usually accompany that face.
“Nothing, John. Nothing. She’ll tell you in her own time,” he says, grinning, then goes back to examining the onion cells.
“What? Sherlock, what’s she doing? Why can’t you tell me?” John asks. He can’t have everyone in this house knowing things that he doesn’t.
“She hasn’t figured out why it’s wrong yet, either. Just wait until she does, and she’ll tell you,” Sherlock says. He seems to sense John being about to speak, because he cuts him off again. “Just wait, John. It won’t be long now.”
And John knows that’s the end of this conversation.
***
Sure enough, a few days later, he finds out.
Mina has come home with a note from her teacher, explaining that she had rudely corrected her when she had tried to explain the water cycle to the children. Mina had insistently demanded to know the chemical formula of water and what types of bonds were present in its structure, which had disrupted the class because once she had wanted to know, everyone else had wanted to know as well. She sheepishly hands the note to John, clearly expecting a scolding, but John takes one look at her face, then one at Sherlock’s, and pulls out a biro to write an angry note in reply. Mina looks up at him, confused.
“Mina, you just wanted to learn. As far as I can tell, you weren’t rude to your teacher, you just asked for more than she had been going to teach. There’s nothing wrong with that, and Papa and I –,” he looks over at Sherlock for help, and receives an approving, if watery nod, “Papa and I are very proud of you for asking. So we’re not mad. And we’re writing your teacher a note explaining to her why we’re not mad, yeah?”
Mina gives him the exact same watery nod that Sherlock had just given him (nurture wins again), but her expression immediately turns to one of guilt when he hands her the note. John has to know.
“Mina, what’s wrong? Why do you keep looking at my handwriting?” he asks gently, hoping upon hope for an answer and an end to his sleepless nights.
Mina glances up at Sherlock guiltily, and Sherlock gives her a nod before he leaves and heads for the kitchen. John knows he’s still going to eavesdrop, but they’ll talk about that later. For now, he nods at Mina, hoping she’ll continue.
“Daddy? I have to ask you an important question,” she says, suddenly shy.
“What is it, sweet pea?”
Mina looks up at him once more before fishing around in her backpack for another note. She hands it to John, who reads
Dear Mina,
Thank you so much for the Christmas biscuits! I hope you enjoy your gifts.
Sincerely,
Father Christmas
in his own handwriting. It’s the note he’d written furtively on Christmas Eve, just like every year, and suddenly he thinks he can see where this is going.
“Daddy… are you Father Christmas?” she whispers fiercely. John thinks he hears a sharp intake of breath from the vicinity of the kitchen, but Mina ignores it.
“Mina, of course I’m not –,” he starts, but Mina cuts him off with a frustrated expression.
“No, no, no! Are you the one who brings me the presents?” she clarifies.
Thinking back to the original conversation with Sherlock, he doesn’t hesitate too long before nodding.
“Did you figure that out from investigating my handwriting?” he asks, heart swelling in his chest at the thought of having two curly-headed consulting detectives in the flat.
“Yes!” she replies proudly, and he hears a sniffle coming from the kitchen. Trust Sherlock to always get emotional about these things. He gathers her into a hug, so proud he thinks his heart will burst.
“I’m so proud of you sweet pea, you’re so smart!” he tells her, then boops her on the nose. She scrunches her nose and giggles, but her expression quickly turns horrified.
“Mina? What’s the matter?” he asks, worried.
Mina glances around guiltily again, then pulls him close so she can whisper (stage whisper, really, but she’s only six) in his ear.
“You can’t tell Papa! He still believes in Father Christmas and I don’t want to ruin Christmas for him forever!” she pulls back, looking stricken.
John thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of holding in his laugh, but then there’s an angry snarl followed by the sound of a beaker being dropped in the kitchen, and suddenly he can’t breathe for how hard he’s laughing at his daughter’s puzzled expression and Sherlock’s furious face sticking out from the doorframe.