Work Text:
"Slight change of plans," Lestrade began apologetically when he answered the door.
Sherlock looked at Lestrade, the drawn face that said he hadn't gotten as much slumber as he would have liked, the stained t-shirt that spoke of thwarted intentions to change his sleep clothes, and at the ruddy faced toddler who stood next to him, clinging to his father's pyjama bottoms and scowling up at Sherlock. "Obviously."
"Two of the nurses called in sick for the late night shift, and they needed Sarah to work. And because Daniel's babysitter apparently needs booking weeks in advance, I'm the only one who could look after him." Lestrade hesitated. "I know you didn't exactly sign on to meet him quite so soon. And I really did mean for us to spend an afternoon alone. If you'd rather we rescheduled --"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the small boy next to Lestrade, who glared right back.
"Nonsense." He slipped past them and marched over to the couch, flinging himself on it. "You shower. I'll make sure he doesn't set anything on fire or otherwise imperil himself."
"Christ, if I didn't need a shower so very badly, I really don't think I'd take you up on that." Lestrade went down on one knee to look his son in the eye. "That's Sherlock, okay? He's a friend."
"Sh'log," Daniel said. The word conveyed a world of mistrust.
"Will you behave for him for five minutes while papa gets dressed?"
For a moment it looked as though the child would have a meltdown of truly epic proportions. Then he silently gathered up an armful of soft toys along with a model fire engine nearly as big as he and flung himself into a squashy chair opposite Sherlock.
"If he wails, you can give him some juice. That usually does the trick," Lestrade said at the edge of the room, dithering.
"Go," Sherlock said impatiently, keeping his gaze trained on the petulant child watching him with equal wariness.
* * *
Greg really had only meant to take five minutes.
But he'd been woken at three in the morning when Sarah had dashed over from her flat with apologies, rushed explanations, and a whingy Daniel in tow. In the rush of settling his son down to sleep in the small room he stayed in while with Greg and trying to keep Daniel entertained when he woke at a horribly early hour that morning, Greg hadn't managed even a moment of sleep or a cup of tea for himself.
After he caught himself groaning in ecstasy at the hot shower water pelting down on him and absent-mindedly washing his hair twice, it really wasn't a surprise to find he'd taken far longer than he intended. When he glanced at his bedside clock, he realized it had been twenty minutes.
He scrambled into his khaki trousers and fled his bedroom, buttoning his shirt as he went. "You two okay?"
The living room was empty.
No one was in the kitchen.
There was silence throughout the house.
Greg ran barefoot out the front door to the pavement, looking frantically back and forth. He had his mobile ready to call 999 when he heard the nonsensical exclamation of a toddler from the back garden.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he reentered and pounded through the ground floor to reach the back door.
When he threw the door open with a bang, he saw Sherlock standing in his billowing coat. Beside him was Daniel, still in his pyjamas but with his wellies pulled on. Both were crouched to examine something on the ground.
"Worms, papa!" Daniel said happily when Greg approached at a jog.
"Worms," Greg repeated, suddenly winded. He ran his fingers through his hair and leaned in to look at the worms the two of them had laid out in squiggly rows alongside a steel rule that Greg had no idea he owned.
"You'll notice the specimens we have collected vary in size, with the largest differences evident in the ones we dug from the flowerbeds," Sherlock lectured. "Now, why do you think that is?"
Daniel stood, tilting his head to one side and drawing up his left leg like a stork as he thought. "Maybe eggshells in 'dere," he said at last, pointing to the tiny scraps of them piled to the right of the worms.
"Very well observed. Now, the reason that eggshells nourish worms --"
Greg's head whipped around to find that, yes, the flowerbeds he'd paid someone to come in and compost just weeks ago were now destroyed. When he turned back, he saw Daniel's small hands were caked in mud. Streaks of dirt liberally decorated his clothing and cheeks.
Somehow Sherlock still looked immaculate.
Greg did his best to hide a smile. Before they did anything else he'd have to bathe Daniel, always something guaranteed to make his son fuss if it took place mid-day. But it was almost worth it to see his son staring up at Sherlock with wide fascinated eyes.
"Right, well, now that you two naturalists have had a bit of fun, why don't we get Daniel cleaned up, and I'll take us all out for pub grub?"
Sherlock sighed. "Wasteful to leave an experiment like this in the middle --"
Greg squeezed his arm gently to interrupt. "Probably, yeah. But it's been hours since breakfast, and if Daniel doesn't eat soon, you'll witness a tantrum the likes of which must be seen to be believed."
"All right, fine. Scrub him up, then, and we'll go."
"Okay." He looked back and forth, at his filthy son relaxed and smiling, and at Sherlock turning his calm attention back to the worms. He could hardly believe Sherlock had elected to stay when he saw Daniel was there in the first place, but that was nothing compared to Sherlock entertaining Daniel in the garden and actually agreeing to go out for pie and a pint along with his boyfriend's toddler.
Unable to resist any longer, Greg leaned in to brush a kiss across Sherlock's lips.
"No!" Daniel shrieked. "My Sh'log!" He hurled his tiny body around Sherlock's leg.
Sherlock looked horrified to find that the mud had at last been distributed all over his designer suit. "I believe you'll have to lend me a change of clothes," he said crossly.
"No problem there," Greg said, grinning. "I have a feeling I'm going to like seeing you wearing my things."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and stalked back to the house, Daniel still wrapped around his leg.