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On a sunny afternoon Mycroft arranges for his family to go on a bike ride. Granted, they have a baby under their care, and Mycroft hasn’t ridden a bike since, well… he can’t even remember. This is the year for trying new things though, and he wants to take advantage of the lovely weather before a week of forecasted rain. Greg is more than amenable, and their son, roughly seven or eight, is absolutely delighted to go with, chattering excitedly to his infant brother, who gargles nonsensically in response.
They travel out to a quieter area, and with it being midweek, there are very few people about to disturb them. They hire two bikes, one with jutting foot stands on the back, the other clipped to a two-seater trailer for Lock to sit in. He’s amused by the new environment, not at all bothered that he’s strapped in when he can stroke his fingers over the netting surrounding his head. Should the rain decide to visit early, there’s a plastic cover that will flop over the front of the trailer to encase him inside, just like a baby’s pram.
Mycroft is ready to help Jawn into the trailer when he hops onto the foot stands at the back of Greg’s bike. At the look of horror on his husband’s face, Greg smiles. “Hey, it’s alright. Jawn and I are used to this, aren’t we?”
Little Watson is so excited he’s panting, chest jumping along with his feet. “Yeah! This is how we got around as kids! And now I ams again!”
Mycroft steps forward to press two hands to his chest and back, the pressure helping to ground him before he becomes overstimulated. “I see that. You hold on tight, and if you need to get off you tell us right away, do you understand?”
“Yes pa,” Jawn replies dutifully, and doesn’t fuss when the man fiddles with his helmet for the third time, checking the strap and wobbliness, which is done so tight his whole head shakes with it. He finally bats papa’s hands away and grips daddy’s shoulders.
Lock whinges, discontented with his current lack of movement, so Mycroft sighs, knowing when to pick his battles, and watches his boys ride off. He jumps on his own bike to catch up, huffing at the additional weight tagging behind him, but Lock squeals excitedly, clapping with a dummy strap wrapped around his fingers. Quite the adorable view to glance back at, when Mycroft does, his tongue poking out to make the baby laugh.
Admittedly, the peaceful atmosphere does wonders for the mind and mood. A light breeze prevents overheating, the sun just strong enough to keep the chill out, and within twenty minutes Mycroft is extremely glad he jumped in the deep end with an activity he has been nervous to try. Riding a bike really is just muscle memory, his legs working, core balancing, hands steering as though the decades have melted into slippery wax for him to mold as he wishes. Ahead of him, Jawn and Greg are chatting about Formula 1, positioned much of the same except now Jawn is hugging his daddy around the shoulders, head swivelling about to admire the trees whizzing past them.
Lock too, seems to be enjoying the ride, vocalising around his dummy and playing with the sensory strap Mycroft made to clip it to his clothes. The beads slide around, different sizes, textures and colours, and in such a young headspace he is perfectly entertained by such a simple item. Mycroft wonders what goes through Lock’s head when he’s this small, has never gotten a straight answer when he’s asked, because his memory becomes fickle this young, and he remembers sensations and emotions more than a linear timeline. Mycroft hopes he’ll recall this experience as pleasant and relaxing as much as he does, cycling under a canopy of interwoven trees, bark and twigs popping and snapping satisfyingly beneath his tyres.
For once, his mind is pleasantly blank, free of worry, free of work and responsibility. Gratitude sweeps through him, and Mycroft’s lips curve into a smile he cannot temper, not that he’s in much of a mind to. Why not indulge in these emotions, when he has spent so long masking how he really feels? Sentiment is weakness, he used to say, and now he knows it was a load of bollocks stemming from childhood rejection and insecurity. He can only hope he’s shown Lock how wrong he was about that, whispering those wretched lines in his ear for so many years.
Head shaking to rid of such thoughts, Mycroft pulls up alongside a halted bike. “Everything alright?”
“Tired now.” Jawn informs him, and true, his little legs are shaking. It must be quite uncomfortable balancing on those thin rods for half an hour, over bumpy terrain no less.
“Come sit in with Lock then darling.”
“Swap with me.” Greg demands, bumping Mycroft out the way with his hip. “You’ve been dragging the baby ‘round long enough.”
Not wishing to argue, Mycroft sneaks a kiss and leaves Greg to lower the seat on his bike for his shorter legs, grumbling about his marriage to a giraffe whilst said giraffe straps his son into the trailer with a ruffle of hair. As soon as they’re situated, karma comes swiftly for Gregory.
“Jesus christ!” He struggles to set off at first, legs pushing fruitlessly at the pedals. “How did you do this for so long?”
“Find your zen.” Mycroft snorts. “Here, let me help.”
He jumps off the bike to give Greg an almighty push, the momentum enough to get him started. The return journey is on more of a decline — he’s not sure he could’ve taken all the extra weight uphill. Mycroft waits until he’s certain Greg won’t run out of steam before he gets back on the other bike and catches up. From there, they ride adjacent, Mycroft chatting about a concert he’s interested in, Greg listening between puffs of breath. He refuses to swap, however, determined to complete the journey on his own, but with the baby now fast asleep and Jawn not far off, there is deadweight to carry. He feels like one of those poor donkeys that carry bricks for miles, and makes a mental note to donate to a donkey sanctuary at the next opportunity.
It takes an extra ten minutes to get back, and that’s just to the car, so the kids aren’t forced to tag along to the bike shop. Lock has to be heaved out, whining around his dummy, brows furrowed, yet remaining asleep during his transfer to the car. His head flops against the window with a heart-racing bang. No reaction.
Relieved to have avoided tears, Greg situates Jawn in his own seat, belted up and watching a video on Mycroft’s tablet. Sometimes screen time is necessary, especially now so that the fathers can return the bikes together without worrying about bored kids hatching an escape plan.
Sweat coats Greg’s shirt, sticking to his skin, so he leaves his coat on despite panting like a dog. He chugs a bottle of water with deeply drawn gasps, trickles of water spilling down his front. Tutting, Mycroft mops up his chin with a handkerchief and takes control of the bike carrying the trailer to give his husband a much needed break. As soon as they’re out in the sunshine, sans bikes, Greg removes his coat and wafts his shirt.
“Bloody hell. I’m knackered.”
“Have a sleep with the kids. You’ll need the energy.”
“I’m driv- how!”
Mycroft jingles the keys he pickpocketed, winking as he slips into the driver’s side. As expected, he drives home in his own company, beloved family snoring around him like surround sound speakers. Mycroft couldn’t be happier.