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Jawn is playing with one of Locket’s barbie dolls, sending her on a perilous mission into the jungle, when there is a loud crash from within the kitchen. He is on his feet immediately, the doll abandoned on the carpet as he rushes to his papa’s side.
“What was that?” He asks.
Papa tuts, unlocking the backdoor. “A bird hit the window.”
When Jawn looks properly he can see a physical print of the bird, face and all, the dust from its wings dabbed perfectly on the glass. It’s only a small thing, could fit in his hands easily, and when papa pokes it, there’s a tiny sound of distress. Tears spring to Jawn’s eyes instantly, and without thoughts his legs are taking him to the cupboard.
“What are you doing?” Papa glances over his shoulder. Jawn returns with a shoe box he was going to save to make a diorama for the tiny figures he has recently fixated on. Instead, he will put it to much better use.
“Make a bed.” He says decidedly. They’ve no sticks to make a nest, but they do have reams of shredded paper that lines the box well enough.
Carefully, cradling the bird, Mycroft situates it among the paper. It nestles in with a soft, pained sound, eyes closing.
“Papa?”
“Yes darling?”
Jawn begins to sniffle, rubbing angrily at one eye with his sleeve. “Is birdie gunna d-die?”
“I’m not sure sweetheart,” Mycroft strokes the back of Jawn’s head, “but we’ll try our best to help, won’t we?”
Jawn nods, unable to speak lest the sob cloying his throat escapes. He sits on the patio, bent over the shoe box, stroking one finger over the bird’s back. It doesn’t react, but breathes steadily.
“Leave her alone love dove. We shouldn’t touch birds, remember?” Mycroft scolds gently when he returns with a pipette of water. He kneels at his son’s side, teasing open her beak to feed her droplets of water. She perks up some, swallowing the sips rapidly before settling with a squirm.
“How you know she’s a girl?”
“She’s a blackbird. The females are brown.”
Jawn is quiet for a while, processing. When he next speaks, he gives a determined nod. “I name her Chitty.”
“Why Chitty?” Mycroft chuckles.
Jawn starts to giggle, cheered up by her gaining awareness. “Because she go bang bang!”
Mycroft laughs harder then, pressing a huffing kiss to his boy’s hair. Jawn beams, leaning down to whisper to Chitty. Holmes allows it for a moment so long as the child doesn’t try to touch the bird again, and stands on creaking knees to collect the lid of the box. He hacks a quarter off the length to fashion a rough imitation of a birdhouse, allowing Chitty a modicum of privacy to recover.
Jawn backs off to wash his hands when Chitty’s box is amended, watching papa clean up spilled tea over the tiles and counter. “Messy.” He comments.
“Chitty scared me.” Mycroft admits.
“You throwed your tea like popcorn?” Jawn snorts. Mycroft smiles along with him as he squeezes out the cloth in the sink.
“Indeed. She startled me is all.”
“I thoughts it was you banging da window.”
“Fortunately not. I’d rather not spend the rest of the day in A and E, would you?”
“Nuh-uh…” Jawn looks wistfully at the box. “Is there birdie hospital?”
“I can’t imagine a vet would take her. She’s too wild.”
“So no help?”
“I’ll ask daddy when he gets back, if Chitty hasn’t flown off by then. Now. Juice?”
Jawn agrees, heading outside to play. He is joined a short time later by his father, who is content to finish his newspaper, now slightly soggier than he bought it, at the table. Peace is upheld for twenty minutes, Jawn ambling about the garden, ducking and diving randomly. He returns to the box to stick his hand in.
“No no! Don’t do that baby!” Papa’s voice raises in alarm.
“I feedin’.” Jawn says simply, not removing his hand or gaze from the box.
“Feeding what?”
“A beetle!” Jawn gasps, yanks his hand back then giggles. “She eated it!”
“She did?”
“Ands I have a worm too,” Jawn pulls the worm out of his pocket — and what is it with Jawn and stuffing worms in his pockets?—and pops it into the box. Even from Mycroft’s seat at the table he can hear fluttering and the clack of Chitty’s beak.
“Did she eat that one too?”
“Yep! Yummy for her tummy!”
“She’s feeling better then. That’s excellent news.” There’s a noise from within the house, so Mycroft yells back, “we’re outside!”
His dear, dashing husband ambles out deliciously disheveled. His hair is ruffled, shirt unbuttoned, no tie to be seen. His slacks are tight, framing his pert bum in all the right ways. He catches Mycroft’s eye and winks.
Jawn breaks the moment with a squeal. “Daddy! We have a birdie now!”
“We aren’t keeping her,” Mycroft remarks, sipping his tea.
Greg crouches down to look at Chitty in her little cabin, feeling lips press to his hair and a set of sneaky toes wriggle against his bum. He schools a smile, trying to concentrate on Jawn’s babble, catching bits and pieces, enough to understand why they are currently holding a blackbird hostage.
“You watch her, I get more worms!” Jawn commands, already stumbling to his feet.
“Aye aye Cap’n!” Greg salutes. He sits down, throwing his shoes and socks off as he goes. The bird seems to be doing alright, looking curiously at him, beady eyes blinking every so often. Certainly not on death’s door, but it wouldn’t harm to ask a professional for advice.
When Jawn has brought back a feast for his new friend, he hears the end of daddy’s phone call as he bids them a farewell. “Who dat?”
“The RSPCA. They look after wild animals. I told them about your little birdie-”
“Chitty.”
“Sorry baby. I told them all about Chitty and they said because she’s eating and drinking she will be good to go soon. We just need to make sure she’s warm.”
Jawn’s jaw drops open in joy. “Cuddles?”
“Let daddy hold her, and you can feed her. How’s that sound?”
Jawn is more than happy with those arrangements, plopping down on his bum with his hand fisted full of insects. Greg cups the tiny creature in gentle hands usually reserved for his sons and husband, allowing her the privilege of his loving touch, settled between his palms to eat greedily the foods Jawn has supplied.
Mycroft watches on from the doorway, smiling absently. That Jawn hasn’t cried about the sacrifice of worms is a miracle he does not wish to compromise, so he stays silent, eyes on his beautiful boys giggling. He takes some photos, a video, then sets aside his phone to soak in the moment, to be present as the bird perks up, her wings flapping. She stands up, steadied by Greg’s fingers, and with a small squawk of thanks she bats her wings and takes flight. Jawn gasps, waving her off with muddy fingertips, then turns to gape at daddy in delight.
“She’s okay!”
“Certainly due to your help,” Mycroft says, crouching down to wipe the detritus from little fingers. Jawn blushes, curling up against his papa for a side hug, allowing his hair to be pet. He is most pleased with Chitty’s recovery, though he wishes he could’ve kept her as a household friend. Perhaps she will visit instead.