Chapter Text
“What’s the agenda for today boys?” The glory of one’s singular worry only being of what game to play has greatly calmed Sherlock and John down from a perilous case, their smiles brightening the lines of sleep deprivation and bloodshot eyes.
In unison, they gleefully announce, “cowboys!”
Gesturing to their dress-up case, where the lid has been shut and their costumes laid out, daddy knows to roll his sleeves up and get cracking. Stripped to their pull-ups, in case of accidents caused by overexcitement, each boy takes their turn stepping into pleather chaps with large belts buckled around their waists. The utility belts, found at a car boot sale one sunny afternoon, were painted brown and are used to store toy pistols, toothpicks and any loot they may find. Over linen shirts are pleather waistcoats, actual leather, authentically styled cowboy boots laced up to their knees, and most importantly, matching cowboy hats.
“Are we not sheriffs today?” Greg frowns as Lock declines the shiny star-shaped badge.
“Bandit!” Jawn chirps, barely able to stay within normal gravitational forces from his own excitement.
Daddy nods, dropping the badges back into the costume chest. “Ah, lovely. Can papa and I play with you?”
“You’re the horseys!” Lock pokes him in the chest with an impish grin.
“Wait, what?” Greg’s eyes widen in horror. He’s seen the Bluey episode the kids will likely want to play, and he doesn’t fancy being trotted about.
“Yep! ‘Cause you said we’d get those ones on sticks but we haven’t got ‘em yet, and you can’t be a cowboy without a horse! So you have to be the horses and we will ride you into the sunset!” Lock declares, hopping on an invisible stead whilst Jawn lassoes thin air.
“Er, I don’t blinking think so, young man!”
“But daddy, you gotta,” Jawn frowns with the saddest pout he can muster on command.
Greg sighs, avoiding the plaintive expression by tipping Jawn’s hat down over his eyes. His little lad giggles but stops himself when he remembers he’s supposed to be sad. Daddy speaks before he can open his mouth. “Why can’t you just imagine you have horses like you do with other games?”
“It’s not the same!” Lock cries. His chest heaves as he tips towards genuine upset, not that of a spoiled brat, but of a boy who had something very specific in mind and cannot cope with the change in his idea. Rather than argue further — and he is not giving in for the sake of a tantrum, but a genuinely distressed meltdown, he tells himself — Greg agrees.
He leads his sons downstairs, pausing on the back patio to give Lock a reassuring cuddle, and has them promise not to try and muzzle him or papa. No harnesses, makeshift saddles, and certainly no whips. At any point should daddy or papa want to stop, no little boys can argue it. Lock finds the conditions rather inconvenient yet acceptable, and with a wipe of his sleeve across his damp face, he nods.
“Okay daddy.”
“Yeah daddy,” Jawn chimes in, spinning his pistol around his finger.
“Cowboys today, I see,” Mycroft says in greeting, stepping out with two cups of water for his children. They drink first, knowing play time will not happen unless papa is happy that they are suitably fed and hydrated. “Who are we to play this time?”
“Ponies, papa! You can be Locky’s maybe?” Jawn responds.
“It’s a horse, Jawnie, not a pony. They’re different.” Lock blurts with a gasp for breath. Water has spilled down his front. “And I want daddy to be my horse.”
“Horse?” Mycroft pales. “Oh, you don’t mean…”
Greg shakes his head despondently. “They do. On your knees hubby, we’ve got some land to cover.”
Defensive hands raise, and Mycroft slowly backs away from his rabid children grinning maniacally at him. “No, no. There’s absolutely no way!”