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"A funfair," Greg said blankly.
"Yes." Sherlock frowned down at him, taking off his gloves slowly as he stood imperiously in Greg's front room.
He'd kissed Greg deeply as soon as he entered, his elegant hands cupping Greg's head with great care even as he'd backed Greg against his front door. But now he looked perfectly composed as he spoke (though Greg would have bet anything his own lips were reddened and very likely parted in hopes of another fantastic snog). "A funfair is taking place quite close by, and I'm told normal children enjoy that sort of thing."
Greg resisted the urge to touch a hand to Sherlock's forehead and ask if he was feeling quite well. Going down to the pub with Greg and his son on occasion when Greg requested it, or tolerating Daniel when he asked a thousand and one nonsensical questions right before his bedtime was one thing. But for Sherlock to volunteer himself for a pastime that he wouldn't be caught dead doing normally seemed just the sort of uneasy situation Greg worried about.
It wasn't that Sherlock had voiced any complaints, exactly. After that first meeting with Greg's son, Sherlock had joined them a few times for meals (though he often ate nothing and spent the entire time texting), and occasionally appeared just before Sarah was due to pick Daniel up (huffing contemptuously at whatever Thomas the Tank Engine episode Daniel was sat on the floor watching raptly) when he could have easily arrived after the coast was clear of small children.
When his ex-wife ventured to ask how Sherlock was taking to Daniel, Greg cleared his throat and said cautiously, "Yeah, really well."
But Greg couldn't help the creeping concern that soon Sherlock would soon take his gaze away from his phone and cases and the puzzles inside his head and realize he'd somehow saddled himself with an aging boyfriend who came complete with a sticky and sometimes petulant toddler. Once that happened, Greg suspected it was only a matter of time before Sherlock flew far away from any aspect of Greg's personal life.
Now he tried not to betray his nervousness as he answered, "Yeah, 'course kids like funfairs, but just -- you'd seriously come along to one with us?"
"Obviously. I was the one to suggest the outing, wasn't I? Apparently we have an entire day to spend with your son. It stands to reason we should choose an activity that will entertain him, tedious though it will prove for any adult with even half a brain."
"As long as you promise to be the one to chase after Daniel if he decides to leg it after one of those blokes dressed up as a cartoon bear," Greg joked.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and marched off to the living room to wait, draping himself like a sullen long-limbed teenager over one of the beat-up squashy chairs Greg had gained in the divorce.
Greg hurried to wake Daniel from his morning nap and gather their things before Sherlock changed his mind.
"Papa," Daniel mumbled, clinging tighter to the bedclothes when Greg brushed a hand over his shoulder before smoothing back his fine hair.
"Love, Sherlock is here," Greg whispered. "He's going to spend the day with us. How does that sound?" He prepared for Daniel to sit up and blink in a daze for a few minutes, as he usually did before he could be persuaded to rise.
Instead his son asked, "Sh'log?" with wide eyes. When Greg nodded, Daniel scrambled off the bed, almost landing on the floor with a sprawl before he gained his balance and hurtled through the open doorway to discover if his father was telling the truth.
So rather than attempting to coax his son out of his post-nap bewilderment (and speaking to him firmly if Daniel was feeling stubborn and tearful as he sometimes did when he first woke), Greg dumbly gathered some of his son's things for the outing while he listened to Daniel exclaim over Sherlock in the next room.
Though there was no guarantee the expedition would go off without a hitch -- Greg couldn't actually picture Sherlock at a funfair until the very moment they arrived -- to Greg's great surprise the first hour passed well enough. They made it to the field without incident, Daniel skipping and stumbling over his little legs with great excitement like a cavorting spring lamb. Rather than drag along as Greg had worried he might, Sherlock strode toward their destination as though he were headed to a particularly intriguing and bloody crime scene.
Once there, they were soon swallowed up in the crowd of shrill children, loud teenagers, and weary looking parents.
Daniel was immediately drawn to the toys on offer at the various game booths. After a few tries, Greg won his son a cuddly giraffe at a shooting stall. Then, after demanding and receiving a green balloon, Daniel rode a brightly painted helicopter that went up and down a few inches as it turned slowly around an axis. Greg barely noticed the other helicopters similarly filled with toddlers, so focused was he on taking pictures with his mobile of Daniel looking very grave as he gripped the dummy steering wheel.
"I flied, Papa!" Daniel announced as he disembarked and jogged down the little ramp to where they stood waiting for him. His pale cheeks were ruddy with excitement, his wisps of light brown hair curling from the wind.
"Flew, not flied, and perhaps not in the strictest definition of the term," Sherlock commented, not even bothering to glance up from the text he'd been composing.
Daniel looked as if he wanted to object to the qualification even if he very likely hadn't understood it. But then he saw what Sherlock held under his left arm and reached up for it. "My graffe," he clarified when Sherlock gave him a confused look.
"What?" Sherlock nearly dropped the thing before he shot an annoyed look at Greg. "When did you unload this ridiculous toy on me?" he demanded, though Greg saw he handed the item to Daniel carefully.
Greg shrugged and didn't bother to hide his grin. "Well, you weren't paying attention to me or Daniel or anything, were you? And I can't carry every thing we pick up along the way. So I slipped it under your arm." When Sherlock scowled, Greg added, "Just be glad I didn't tie the balloon to one of your coat's buttons, or attach it to your phone to send it skyward."
"You wouldn't," Sherlock declared, though he looked as if he wouldn't put it past Greg. His fingers curled around his mobile protectively as he spoke. "At any rate, I had to reply to the message; it was an urgent matter. You needn't try to make a point by forcing me to cart around plush toys."
"Sh'log," Daniel said reproachfully, tugging at Sherlock's fine trousers with his grubby hands. "No more fexing today."
Greg tried not to stare; he really did. Everyone always said Daniel was a mini version of him, but Greg typically laughed it off and muttered something about how the boy had his mother's chin. But right now Daniel's expression and words just about mirrored Greg's exactly when he complained to Sherlock for only half paying attention or urging him to turn off his mobile when they spent time together. Greg hadn't imagined Daniel was observing them and the familiar bickering so closely, but here was the proof.
When Sherlock peered down at his son, eyes narrowed skeptically, Greg braced himself. It wasn't that he didn't trust Sherlock to remember Daniel was a child. Sherlock had, against all odds, been more marvelous with Daniel than Greg could ever have imagined he might be. But he knew how Sherlock despised being told what to do and how zealously he guarded his constant contact with those he consulted with or helped.
When the two of them looked to be locked in a challenging glare, Greg opened his mouth to suggest a sweet, another ride, a second balloon: anything to put a halt to a situation in which Daniel might end up in tears and Sherlock might take off, disgruntled and fiercely independent with his coat flapping about him, leaving the two of them alone.
Instead he was left gaping when Sherlock muttered, "Yes, all right, fine," and made a show of turning off and pocketing his mobile. But before Greg could so much as shake his head in disbelief, Sherlock went one better: he crouched down, sweeping Daniel into his arms and through the air as though the little boy really was flying. And when Sherlock stood, he set the toddler atop his shoulders.
"Sh'log!" Daniel exclaimed happily from his perch, as though it was his rallying cry. He clutched Sherlock's curls, very likely far too hard, and bounced.
"Time to find lunch," Sherlock announced, striding off with Daniel urging him on. "Well, come on," he said irritably over his shoulder, halting to glower at Greg where he stood stock still and stunned. "You know how stroppy he can get when he's hungry."
He looked as if he were ready to sweep off. But before he marched away he held out a hand, half in an impatient beckoning, and half in inviting welcome. Looking very proud and very secure, Daniel beamed down at his father even as Sherlock's other hand carefully bolstered his small back.
"Yeah, okay." Greg blinked himself out of his own daze and hurried to catch up with Sherlock and his son.