Chapter Text
The table has been maimed by every existing craft item in the household. Utensils for painting, writing and drawing are scattered in disorganised arrays, paper of various colours and thickness tossed and spread across the covered surface. What had meant to be some easy, quiet colouring of some printed Christmas pictures has turned into mayhem. Greg is thankful Mycroft is sequestered in his study where he cannot lay eyes on the mess, and begins to tidy around the boys, packing away unused paint and glitter pens.
“Why don’t you write Santa a letter?” He asks as he spots his son beginning to flag.
“Yes!” Lock tosses aside his finished drawing to pull out fresh, lined paper. He pauses as he selects some pens, beaming when daddy takes his coloured page of purple penguins, orange trees and a glob of yellow snow to stick to the fridge, just to make Mycroft do a double-take at the puddle of pee displayed in his kitchen.
Jawn, on the other hand, is so heavily regressed that the booster seat had to be pulled out to strap him to his chair, preventing a topple. He has been more keen on eating the pens rather than using them, but Lock had patiently demonstrated much better ways to put them to use; chiefly, creating pictures. Though Watson is too little to colour beyond scribbles, much less draw anything coherent, he is greatly entertained by the felt tips and the freedom to glide the pens along the paper.
He copies his brother, taking a sheet of lined paper, but has no ability to use words, and cannot write, so he instead doodles, sucking on a fresh dummy slipped into his mouth. He vocalises lowly, squealing as he is given a new pen that produces a different colour. Greg sits back with some Bailey’s coffee, a favourite festive treat of his, gently redirecting his baby’s wandering hands as he attempts to draw on his own skin.
“Daddy, what do you want for Christmas?” Lock asks suddenly.
“Hm. Some new socks. I also saw this cool marble puzzle thingie, and I thought it’d be fun to do with my two favourite babies.”
“I’m not a baby.” Frowns Lock.
“You’re my baby. Always will be.” Daddy says with a firm nod.
“Even when I’m old like papa?”
Greg laughs. “Even when you’re old like daddy.” Lock giggles, his tongue poked between his lips, eyes glittering like the twinkling lights strung around the cupboards, and Greg feels something lodge in his chest like he might cry. God, he loves them so much. “What about you Locky, got any ideas?”
The tot hums, drawing a little heart in the corner of his letter. “Choccie. And toys. I love toys.”
“Don’t we all?” Greg guides Jawn back to the paper. “What kind of toys?”
Referring back to his list, adding another item, he considers the question. “More animals for my farm? An’ an’ those toys I see’d on my iPad!”
“Can you show me? I’m not sure what you mean.”
Lock darts to the counter where his tablet is charging, yanking the cable free. With a few rapid taps of his fingers he finds what he’s looking for and drops the tablet in daddy’s arms. Greg scrolls through the pictures, squinting. He really should wear his glasses more. “Oh, I see. Very nice!”
“You can pulls it and push it an’ an’ an’, erm… other things!” Lock points excitedly at the collection of stim toys. There are plenty to choose from, all with different mechanisms. Greg sends the page to his phone then hands the tablet back.
This year his son doesn’t seem too concerned that daddy is able to read his letter to Santa. He is convinced the jolly Father Christmas is real, which means there is no risk in showing his fathers the letter he’s working so hard on. He’s used his best handwriting, reminded Santa how good he has been and that he loves him.
Jawn’s letter, if it can even be called that, is utterly incoherent. There are vague attempts at words, imitations of letters like those Captcha alphabets but most of it is garbled scrawls of pen, smudges and doodles. Greg sighs, hoping he can get Jawn to write a letter when he’s old enough to at least tell them what he might want this year.
He shows Mycroft the letter a day later, when John is at work and Sherlock is deciding whether he wants to remain alone at the manor or go back to his flat. They’re discussing the appalling state of the letter when Sherlock comes up behind them.
“What are you looking at?” Greg jumps, yelping.
“This.” Mycroft gestures to the paper.
Sherlock’s eyebrows pleat towards his nose. “And what exactly is… this?”
“Excellent question. Let me know if you find an answer.”
“Gregory,” Mycroft chides, but he’s smirking. “That is Jawn’s letter to Santa.”
“Eminently helpful, I see.”
“How are we supposed to glean anything from this?” Groans Greg, dropping his head into his husband’s chest.
“We don’t. It’s impossible.” Mycroft responds with a chuckle, his hand carding sympathetically through silver hair.
“Nonsense. You’ve just got to think like Jawn.” Sherlock takes the letter and begins tracing shapes with his fingers. “I think that’s a reindeer. A snowman, and a- aha!”
“What?” Greg and Mycroft chorus.
“He wants a toy train set. Like those Christmas ones.”
“How on earth did you get that?” Greg gapes at him, scanning the paper.
“There are the tracks,” Sherlock points to a pair of wobbly, parallel lines intersecting across the page in large loops, “and here is the train,” which is but a blob with another blob on top to signify the chimney.
“Christ,” Greg scratches his beard, the noise loud against Mycroft’s ear where he is pressed close. “Well, I’m glad you saw it now.”
“Glad to be of service.” Sherlock does a little bow, then turns on his heel. “Do we have any more coffee?”