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The alley is quiet, most customers long gone or at work, the kids at school. Despite the brightness of a snowy outside — and how rare for it to snow in London, on Lock’s birthday no less — the lanes are plunged into dim lights, lit by neon signs and black-lit paint. The pins, unlike the classic white-striped-red, glow in the dark, a sickly green that appears alien.
It was a shock when Lock had asked if he could go bowling for his birthday. Even with sensory issues set aside, having to play in close proximity to other patrons is not a pleasant experience, most of all for their parents, who have to keep their behaviour under control in public whilst running the risk of their famous sons being recognised. Granted, in this weather nobody is bothering to make the journey, and before they’ve even got their bowling shoes the only family in the lanes is readying to leave. A few customers mingle in the arcades, entertaining themselves in the warmth of brightly lit, cawing machines.
Bundled in coats, the children cannot even reach their own feet to put on their shoes, and require assistance. They are lead to an alley, Lock and Jawn allowed to type in their own names on the buttoned pedestal. Lock is first, bouncing on his toes in pure excitement, hidden in a discrete corner as per Mycroft’s request, so he and his little brother can be free to express themselves.
He manages a split on his first go, but to their shock he curves the ball just right to knock both remaining pins down. Jawn, plagued by an aching shoulder due to the harsh weather and his young headspace, requires the side rails up and a support rack. He positions it how he likes, waits for daddy to pick a ball up and put it atop the rail then stand back to allow Jawn to give it a great big shove!
“Wow! Nine pins Jawn!” Lock high fives him then shoves the rack aside for papa’s turn. He cannot keep still for the excitement, almost sending himself down the alley with his vim, were it not for daddy quite literally holding him back.
At first, it seems the game will go as normal, the boys seem content to wait their turn, watching enthusiastically with the most encouraging, sweet words. They cheer on their fathers (and each other) every round, sympathetic to their failures and generous with hugs and affirming high-fives. There is a small incident in which Lock picks up a ball with holes too-big, and instead of the ball rolling down the lane it goes backwards towards his family. To their fathers’ utter confusion, Jawn stands up, jumps in a circle and says ‘woow’ in response, as if that is the known thing to do. However, the game is off to a fantastic start, and the dads are chuffed they chose Lock’s actual birthday to come here.
Until round four.
“Ouch.” Mumbles Lock.
“What’s up?” Daddy asks, dandling Jawn on his lap. One strap of his dungarees has slipped off his shoulder, but it’s the bad one and even with pain medication it aches and burns fiercely, so nobody tries to fix it.
Lock jostles the ball in his hand, shrugs and turns towards the lane. “It’s okay.”
Mycroft and Greg share a Look. That can only mean impending doom. Neither can even stand to question him further as Lock rocks his arm back and does an almighty swing. For a second the ball does not move, stuck to Lock’s fingers. He harrumphs and gives it a second go, lurching his arm harder. This time the heavy ball slips free. A bit too fast.
And too high.
“Oh shh-ugar.” Greg hides his face in Jawn’s hair like he can avoid what has happened. Mycroft jumps to his feet, crowding Lock to ensure he hasn’t been injured.
“I’m fine pa! Geroff!” He shrugs his father off, cheeks aflame.
The only injury sustained is of that to the poor television above their lane. The screen has caved in, glass raining glittery towards the floor. Such a booming noise caused the staff to run to attention, discerning the situation. Lock’s eyes water, and he mumbles apologies, terrified of being kicked out. His ball has rolled to a stop, a dent left behind where it landed.
“It’s okay. Just an accident, right?” Says the manager.
“The ball got stuck on my fingers.” Lock admits.
“No harm done. That’s why we have insurance.”
Mycroft pats Lock’s shoulders. “I’ll pay for the damage.”
“No need, it’s all covered. Let’s move you over a couple of lanes. We can transfer your scores over.”
Greg sends Jawn off with the birthday boy, thanking the staff for their patience and understanding. Most of all he’s relieved no actual bodily harm was sustained, but glancing back at the state of the furthest alley makes him cringe. The system on the new television boots up with their original scores, Lock’s turn still standing. He goes again, picking a ball with much wider holes and Greg standing at his side.
“Much gentler now.” Daddy suggests. The staff have left to find brooms and mops, the manager headed towards the phone presumably to contact the insurance company.
Lock nods, eyebrows furrowed. He swings so gently, in fact, that the ball drops with a thunk and begins to roll down the long, long lane at a glacial pace. “Maybe a bit harder than that,” Lock giggles.
Greg could be sure that by the time the ball reaches the pins Lock’s birthday is over with, but his expression is soon sweetened by the uproarious cheers of his children. “A strike? Are you kidding!”
Daddy picks his boy up ‘round the waist and spins him. Lock lands on unbalanced feet, stumbling towards his brother for a hug. They watch the old fashioned video play declaring Lock’s perfect score, the graphics so dated surely they were made when Lock was a biological child. Little Holmes grins from ear to ear, the doting praise and his own sense of pride ridding the awful twist in his gut that he has broken the other lane. If he doesn’t look at it, it won’t hurt his feelings, so he focuses on lining up Jawn’s support rack to enhance his ability to score a strike too.
Regardless of the boys’ kindness and wish to share the wins, their daddy storms ahead, beating everyone by a solid fifty points. Mycroft, who has limited to no experience of bowling — so limited, in fact, he cannot recall a time he has ever stepped foot in such a place — is not at all surprised to come last. He has the eye and the directional deduction to aim perfectly, but his arms do not cooperate with him, and multiple times he sends the ball right into the gutter.
As they gather their coats and swap out their shoes, Mycroft feels a gentle tug on his sleeve. He looks down to find his youngest son, abashed, toying with the fabric. “I’m sorry you came last, but, but, even though you did you tried your very hardest and, and I-I’m still proud of you,” he says between large, nervous inhales.
Mycroft softens, and if it were possible he would be sure his heart has just melted to a pile of gooey mush. He kisses Jawn’s head, smoothing down damp hair borne of sweat, and pulls him into a cuddle. “Thank you baby. You did so well too, especially with your sore arm.”
“I need more medicine,” the tot admits quietly, “hurtin’ real bad.”
“Alright. Let’s go get some food, hey?”
Jawn cannot take his medicine on an empty tummy, and the snacks he consumed in the car on the way here are not enough to line his stomach. Mycroft alerts Greg to their minor situation with a few gestures, the ease of their relationship allowing easy, silent communication. Thankfully Lock is hungry too, and runs off like a bullet towards the attached restaurant.
Mycroft would refuse to dine at the typical haunts associated with bowling alleys, but Greg managed to find a place with a proper Beefeater pub attached, as well as the blaring arcade. They find a table and sit down, browsing the menu. Jawn whinges, rubbing at his shoulder, whereas Lock, happy for papa to pick his meal, rubs the sore area and dots kisses around the starburst scar hidden under a striped shirt.
“‘Iya, are you ready to order?” Greets their waiter.
“Er,” Greg glances around the table then back to the woman. “Yes.”
“Any drinks first?”
“Sure. Two cokes, a shandy and some-”
“Wine. Your best red.” Mycroft answers.
“No worries. Any particular shandy?”
“Carlsberg if you have it. Thanks.”
“And any food for you today?”
“Cheeseburger!” Jawn yells from his seat. Mycroft shushes him, but the waiter only laughs. “Thanks…” he squints at her name badge, “Megz?”
“That’s me!”
“With a zed on the end?”
“Aye, why not?” Unfazed by the odd man-children giggling, she turns back to Greg, who rattles off their orders and specificities as she jots them down.
“I want to go in the arcaaade.” Lock huffs.
“Me too.” Adds Jawn.
“Me three.” Says Megz. “I tell you what. This’ll be about twenty minutes, so you can go there, and… let me just go one of those thingies.”
She saunters off, returning moments later with a small, blinking device. “This will let you know when your food is ready, so you can come back.” She hands it to Greg then drops a reserved sign on the table.
“Thank you so much, that’s so kind of you.” Mycroft smiles politely, allowing his kids to scurry off.
“Well, if you have a mo’ you could rate my service by scanning that QR code there. But type Meg. I’m on probation, can’t get into any more trouble.”
“For what?” Greg asks. No detective can hear that and not be curious. She glances over her shoulder, but she is the only visible staff member.
“I tried taking the drinks’ fridge. I swear I was just borrowing it!” She snorts. “I got it halfway out the door before they spotted me.”
“The fridge?”
“I didn’t take the drinks! Just needed the fridge.”
“What would compel you to steal a fridge from your place of work?” Mycroft chuckles, flummoxed by the absurdity of it.
Rather than answer, she winks, turning on her heel. “Best go see to your… friends. Before they shoot someone.”
The dads whip their heads around to find their sons pretending to shoot each other dead with some large guns attached to some sort of survival zombie game. Greg sighs, slipping the device into his pocket. He has no interest in that, but the coin machines call to him. He slots two pounds into the converter and takes his ten-pence pieces off to the best machine.
Mycroft, on the other hand, cannot abide letting the children run ragged. He watches them climb into a fake jeep, the windscreen replaced by a large screen and the dashboard swapped for guns on pivoting arms. He sticks his head through the curtain where he is faced by two puppy-eyed pouting boys.
“Puh-lease pa. Cos it’s my birthday?” Lock pouts.
“Alright.” Mycroft allows.
“But Jawn needs to do it with me.”
“Won’t it hurt your shoulder, darling?” Jawn gives some experimental tugs on the gun, and finds, if he really needs to, he can control the device one handed. “Okay. Let’s see how well you can do then.”
Very well, it turns out.
They surpass the high score with almost double the amount of points. Sharp-shooter Jawn is able to attack distant enemies and track the movements of hidden ones, whereas Lock is able to solve the puzzles to earn gems and shoot enemies close-up. So concentrated they don’t even speak, the boys are unaware of Mycroft’s dropped jaw. Surely this game is similar to the ones they have at home on their console, for there’s no other explanation as to why they are so skilled on their first go.
Deeply entrenched as they are, the boys are oblivious to daddy’s approach, who is rather proud of himself for winning a tub of slime for Lock and a sweet little rubber ducky for Jawn. In his joy he does not register the focus his boys have cast upon the blood-soaked screen, hearing only the rumbling bird-like shrieks of dinosaurs and tyres on gravel. Which is why poor little Jawn jumps half a mile out of his skin, squeals, and pelts the rubber duck away. Away being Mycroft’s face. Which it hits with a loud squeak!
“Sowwy!” Jawn yells without turning from the screen. “Daddy you scared me!”
“Sorry champ.” Daddy laughs, his phone already out and filming. He captures their victory yells and their cries of horror as they finally lose several rounds due to a rogue dino, watching as they type LJ into the name bar where they are proudly sat at the very top of the leaderboard. Greg even films them covering their eyes from the bright overhead lights in comparison to the dark jeep, Lock’s face comically screwed up.
“What did I throw at pa?” Jawn asks.
“I won you a ducky. Look at how cute he is!”
“She!”
“She?”
“Is a she.” Jawn decides. “I shall name her Ducky.”
He pets her plastic shape, bright yellow with twinkling eyes and her beak raised into a smile. She wears a monocle, the chain disappearing behind a long, shiny top hat that gleams rainbow where they stand beside a colourful arcade machine, but most of all he loves her bowtie. “Bowties are cool.” He tells them. They are inclined to agree; Ducky is one dapper bird.
Lock is equally delighted by his tub of slime, but does not yet want to play with it as it would waste valuable arcade time. He drags daddy to an air hockey table, bouncing on his toes as daddy slots in a coin. They are uncharitable contenders, intent on winning no matter the cost, age or prior skill thrown out the window. They are so vigorous, in fact, that multiple times the puck is sent flying off the table, causing Mycroft to yelp and duck. He’s had enough of ducks for one day, he thinks. Jawn, in contrast, cannot stop giggling, panting for breath and keeping papa’s arm tight between his own so he doesn’t sink to the floor. His pull-up certainly gets some use out of it, which papa is silently smug at, considering the little tyke threw up a fuss about wearing one before they left.
Lock wins by the skin of his teeth, and not even because daddy went easy on him. A challenge kept his young mind engaged, but now he is excited for Jawn to have a turn. This time, as Jawn is both littler and in pain, Lock witnesses daddy surreptitiously going easier on him, letting his hand slip for the puck to drop into the goal, or completely missing shots he was able to hit in the previous game. Jawn still has the giggles, and doesn’t mind at all that daddy beats him despite the pity points, as there is a much brighter, cooler version of air hockey to play.
It is themed after Pacman, two players standing either side of the table, each with their own paddle. Music begins to play, one neon puck sent out onto the table, but as soon as Lock puts it, a waterfall of pucks come raining down on the board, most small but some bigger for double the amount of points. Poor mycroft is overwhelmed, blindly whacking pucks every which way and flinching, certain at any minute he’ll meet his demise.
Only after the game is finished and the four of them are panting are they able to decipher who got what points, and it is a close one, with only ten points, or one large puck, between the winners: Lock and daddy, versus the losers, a shaken papa and an exhausted Jawn.
Their device beeps just as the game times out, dinging and vocalising at them to ‘come back next time!’. On their way back to their table, Lock freezes, staring at a young girl wandering past. She is holding a Hello Kitty toy almost as large as herself, her hair swishing behind her — Jawn falls in love with the red streaks on the underside of her gleaming hair — and upon hearing Lock’s gasp she waves the kitty’s arm and continues on her way. She won it at the claw machine that Lock won’t even touch (he watched a video on arcade scams and he’d rather save his money to buy a proper toy rather than the old bears they stuff into those machines).
He and Jawn discuss the absurdity of such a large toy being won as their food is set down, in which they are promptly squeezed into the booth between their dads, preventing escape. Overdue his painkillers, Jawn swallows down his tablets with a large swig of coke then buries his face into his fries, ketchup coating his chin and fingers within seconds. Inhales his food rather than eats it, if Mycroft were asked. He has gone for a more dignified steak, and munches away at some chips between bites of salad.
Daddy has also gone for a hearty burger, but pauses to cut up Lock’s chicken into more palatable bites, stealing one for himself whilst the tot isn’t looking. He’s eminently grateful neither of the kids need hand feeding, but can’t help laughing at the state of Jawn’s face, who looks like he has murdered his dinner.
Lock picks up a napkin, wets it by licking the corner, and reverently, carefully, wipes Jawn’s face clean. There’s a bit of sticky residue left that will only come off with a wipe, but his little brother is grateful for the gesture and leans in to peck a kiss on equally tacky lips. They both come away grinning, Lock blushing, Jawn squirming like an excited puppy. All in all, another successful birthday.