Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started with a foam block. Just one. Sherlock found it, of all places, in 221C, the tiny cleared out bedroom offering nothing but dust and emptiness and one red foam block with the letter “A” on it. Sherlock cherished it like nothing else, imagining someone had given it to him as a gift when he was younger, had wanted him to play instead of learn.

He didn’t get toys as a child. He got books, and he loved them. He got Mycroft, and he loved him. He got his brain, and his wit, and his curls, and his eyes, and he grew to love them as well. But he had never owned a stuffed animal, or a wooden block set, or anything that he could really play with. And now he had one simplistic thing and he wasn’t going to let it go.

Sherlock hid it under his bed, confident that neither John nor Mrs Hudson would look underneath somewhere so likely to be a biohazard. He pulled it out after cases and looked at it, sometimes while sitting in the chair by his desk, sometimes while lying on the floor, sometimes while in his pyjamas, on his back in bed, eyes closed and a satisfied smile on his face.

Somehow, John didn’t find out for a long time. Sherlock slipped into regression more often since he began to indulge in playing, sometimes forgetting himself and slipping in public. Thankfully John was there every time, and his voice was usually enough to bring Sherlock back up. Afterward he would need a good amount of quiet time on the sofa to combat the emotional exhaustion that came with aging up again--sometimes John would let him be and other times he would be insufferable. Sherlock supposed he couldn't really blame him though: he had no idea why Sherlock didn't want to be bothered and the natural human reaction to that situation is to be a nuisance until the answer is given up.

Most of their cases were simple, private affairs that paid well. Simple for Sherlock, that is. John looked content to follow the detective around without question but he went on two dates with the same woman over the course of five cases and Sherlock was getting worried. It wasn’t like he didn’t want John to be happy. He just didn’t want John to be happy with someone other than him.

After six months of playing with the foam block, the edges began to wear (they weren’t made for fingers so dexterous as an adult’s, Sherlock often lamented to himself) and the beads inside slowly trickled out until it was half full and the floor under his bed was covered with them. No matter how careful Sherlock was, more and more beads spilled out.

Of course this would be around the time that John decided it was time to spring clean the whole flat, and when John said whole flat, he meant it. He roped Sherlock into helping with the sitting room and kitchen, because most of the things in there were his anyway, but allowed him reprieve when it came to the bedrooms and bathrooms.

How Sherlock could forget his most prized possession was in his room was beyond him.

Three days and a 6/10 case after John’s spring cleaning, Sherlock got on his hands and knees and reached under his bed. His hand came up empty.

Panic, sheer, unadulterated fear, shot through him and he searched more frantically, every semblance of maturity falling away and terror taking over. “Please, please,” he whispered to himself, sitting up and wringing his hands.

John would know! John always knew how to make Sherlock feel better. He practically ran out to the sitting room, skidding to a halt in front of the fireplace. “What did you throw away?” he asked without preamble.

“A lot of things,” John said without looking up from his book.

“Did you throw away a block? A colourful foam one?”

“Was it torn on two sides?”

Sherlock stood a little straighter, nodding. “Yes. What happened to it?”

“I binned it.”

There was silence for a while, John turning a page in his book, and Sherlock trying desperately to process this new information. A memory he thought he had suppressed, of his father snatching a toy rabbit out of his hands that Mycroft had made in secret and tearing it apart, came to the forefront of his mind and he almost staggered against the mantle. “Where is it?” he asked, lower lip trembling.

“It was ripped apart, Sherlock.”

“Where is it?” he asked again. His eyes filled with tears and he could feel his chest constricting; normally John’s voice would pull him back to the surface but he wasn’t used to being emotionally unstable anymore. His father hadn’t shouted at him in decades.

John huffed impatiently, a perfect imitation of Holmes Senior. “Aren’t you a little old for toys?” he said into his book.

That was the last straw. Sherlock didn’t even have time to leave the room before he was sobbing, face buried in his arms, his thin frame threatening to shake apart from the force. John looked up in alarm, watching Sherlock get as far as the kitchen before collapsing onto the floor.

Sherlock felt the last of his “adult” self slip away. He sobbed openly, loudly, unable to hold in his hiccuping gasps or anguished cries. There were footsteps behind him and he instinctively tried to quiet himself, his breathing soon quickening into hyperventilation and he couldn’t get enough air, he felt like he was going to pass out, his chest wasn’t working--

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” John was kneeling in front of him, eyes wide and concerned. “Breathe with me, ok? I’m going to count and we’re going to breathe together.” He moved closer, bracketing Sherlock’s curled form between his legs and resting his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “In, ok? We’re breathing in… and let it out for three seconds. Okay?”

“John,” Sherlock sobbed, still struggling to breathe.

John whispered something comforting to him and shifted even closer, pulling Sherlock into his arms and kissing the top of his head. “You’re a little boy, aren’t you, Sherlock? Have you regressed?”

Sherlock coughed and shuddered, balling his hands in John’s shirt. Something about John knowing that was bad, was wrong, but he couldn’t think straight. “Block,” he whimpered, tears now soaking John’s vest instead of his own sleeves. “John, where’s block?”

John didn’t answer for a while, rocking Sherlock back and forth until he regained control of his breathing patterns. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t realise it was that important to you.” The detective, now much younger than he was five minutes ago, began to tremble again. “How about you have a lie down and I’ll see what I can do to fix this, hm?”

Naps were something Sherlock liked but rarely got the chance to experience. He nodded, letting John manhandle him into standing and heading into his room. He fully expected John, ever the practical man, to leave him to his own devices and hope whatever freak issue he was having would clear up eventually. To his surprise (which sent him into tears again), John helped him onto his newly cleaned bed and began unbuttoning his dress shirt.

John’s hands left his person immediately. “Am I hurting you?” he asked softly, trying to catch Sherlock’s eye. “Do you want to do it by yourself?”

Sherlock shook his head, blinking harshly in some attempt to stop crying, his hiccuping breaths quiet for now. John continued to take his clothes off, leaving him in his pants, and pulled a fresh pair of pyjamas out of his wardrobe. “Lay back,” John murmured. “Don’t tense up.” Together they succeeded in dressing him and getting him under his duvet. John sat at his side and Sherlock tried his best to claw his way out of this headspace, to rationalise, to tell John exactly what happened and why he should delete it, but the gentle kiss on his forehead only helped him sink lower.

“Sorry, John,” mumbled Sherlock, holding the hem of John’s jumper in his fist.

“Why?”

“T-tantrum.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John stood up and Sherlock began to protest, reaching up for the doctor’s hand, but John only toed off his shoes and got into bed with him. Sherlock curled into him, once again claiming a spot on his jumper. “That wasn’t a tantrum. I threw away your block, and I’m so sorry. Why don’t we get a new one tomorrow? A whole set.”

Sherlock shook his head, inky curls tangling in John’s fingers like they had a mind of their own. “I’m a fr- a freak. I don’t de-deserve blocks.” The rest of Sherlock’s breath was squeezed out by John, who held him harder and pressed insistent kisses to the top of his head.

“You are not a freak. I don’t want to hear you say that again. You’re a very good little boy.”

Sherlock huffed and tried to sound more adult to convince John he was right. “I am f-four years old, and th-that is much too old for toys.” He could tell by the way John tensed up that he still didn’t agree but it was true, and his Father always said that telling the truth was much better than hiding behind a lie.

“Stay right here for a moment. For me, please?” Sherlock nodded and watched John stand again, leaving the room. He stared up at the ceiling, more tears pricking at his eyes. He hadn’t cried this much since Mycroft found him in his old apartment, too sick and too high and this close to death. The memory of his overdose conflicted with what he was experiencing now and he flinched outwardly, hoping to chase the memory away.

John came back with a bear in his hands. It didn’t look like anything expensive, definitely not a Paddington and missing an eye that had been sewed over with black thread. It was obviously loved for many years. Sherlock eyed it carefully, then moved away when John made to hand it to him. “John?” he whispered, disbelieving.

“He was mine when I was little. I want you to have him.” Sherlock was afraid to even touch it--him--lest he fall apart in his hands, but John was looking at him with such a kind expression that he took him and cradled him against his chest. “He had a name, but I’ve forgotten it. How about you name him?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened even further. “Please don’t,” he said, pushing the bear away again.

John sat on the bed and reached out for Sherlock, helping him sit up and pulling him gently into his arms. “Don’t what, darling?” he asked softly.

“Don’t… give me- give me this bear and take him aw-away. Please.”

The doctor made a funny expression, the same one he made the last time Sherlock woke up with bandages. It was half concerned and half murderous. Sherlock was about ninety percent sure the murderous half wasn’t aimed at him, but he still shrank away. “He is yours to keep, Sherlock. I promise.” John lifted the bear again and placed it in Sherlock’s fumbling hands. “Sleep, okay? I’ll be right here with you. And when you wake up, we’ll get you something to eat, and then we’ll get you a new block set.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the smile that broke out over that statement. He hid the majority of it in the back of his new bear’s head. “I love you, John,” he said honestly, looking away.

“I love you too, Sherlock. Let’s sleep.”
---
It wasn’t that John didn’t know about Sherlock’s tendency to regress. He just didn’t say anything about it. He wasn’t a psychologist by any means but there were psych classes required for his MD and he liked to read medical journals for the newest updates in his (now outdated) education. Also, a few of his friends from the GP were psychologists or paediatricians and whatever clues about Sherlock’s behaviour he gave them, he always got the same answer.

So he at least had a suspicion. When Sherlock began to lose focus during slow periods of cases, eyes wide and unclouded by judgement, John gently said his name once or twice and Sherlock snapped back into himself.

John was loathe to mention it. Sherlock didn't like appearing weak and this was an argument waiting to happen. And still, the doctor handled the seemingly hard-edged detective more carefully from then on; not insofar as letting Sherlock walk all over him, but minor spills and forgetfulness were forgiven more often than not.

As a bonus, John wasn’t too sure about leaving Sherlock for a long term romantic relationship with someone else (weren’t they already in one of their own?) and this added another layer of confidentiality over their friendship.

Even so, John considered calling Mycroft. They were by no means the best of friends, and John usually avoided talking to him more often than absolutely necessary, but if Sherlock had been doing this for any period of time longer than John knew him it was probably in their best interests for him to get all the information he could.

Sherlock shifted in his sleep, his eyes fluttering open as if to check that John was still lying beside him. John smiled a bit and brushed his dark curls off his forehead, planting a gentle kiss there and very carefully getting up and out of bed. He figured this should have weirded him out or made him run, but with the prior warning in terms of behavioural hints and Sherlock’s normal nature as an adult, it wasn’t really that bad.

John closed the door behind himself before he took out his phone, pressing the second speed dial for Mycroft. It was extremely unlikely that he would be able to hide any information from the elder Holmes but he resolved to try.

“Has my dear brother reverted to childhood again?” Mycroft said without so much as a greeting, the exasperation in his voice traveling easily over the phone.

“Well. Yes.” John cleared his throat and shoved his free hand in his jeans pocket. “He has. I take it this isn’t a new thing?”

Mycroft sighed. “Not as such, no.” There was the sound of shuffling papers for a moment, and then he continued, “I suppose part of it is my fault. I wasn’t entirely able to save him from our father….”

“That hardly sounds like your fault. Aren’t you three, four years older than him?”

Mycroft sighed again. “Six. But I imagine a seventeen year old should be able to convince his father to let his eleven year old have playthings.”

John scoffed and hunched his shoulders; this was sounding more like his own childhood, and he could definitely relate. “Older siblings do the best they can, Mycroft.” He quickly switched topics lest their phone call become a heart to heart--not that he was opposed to it, but this wasn’t the best time for emotional upheaval on either if their parts--and moved further away from Sherlock’s door. “I was wondering what you did to help him. Or what anyone did.”

The official quieted for a while, as if thinking, and John waited as patiently as he could. “I didn’t. And as far as I know, no one else has. I… observed this behaviour, but I was never sure what Sherlock would want me to do or not do, and he refused to include me in his thoughts. So in this, I let him be.”

John nodded to himself. It was unlikely that Sherlock would willingly share something of this magnitude with Mycroft, both of whom’s rivalry was never fully explained to him. “All right. I was just… wondering.”

“Doctor--”

“John.”

“... John. Not only are you an exceptional doctor and caretaker, you’ve known my brother for almost two years now. If anyone could learn what to do through experience, it would be you.”

John was mortified to feel himself blushing and thanked the heavens that he wasn’t sitting across from Mycroft in his office right now. “Thank you, Mycroft. I’ll… remember that.”

“See that you do.” Mycroft hung up, leaving John standing in the hallway with his silent phone pressed to his ear. Now he knew that at least some of the traditional "Sherlock-ness" his flatmate possessed was a learned trait, something to protect his quite badly damaged mental view of himself.

In a few moments, John walked briskly to the sitting room, picked up his laptop, and brought it back into Sherlock’s room with him. He might not be able to fix Sherlock, but if he were honest, he didn't want to. He would, however, need a lot of prior knowledge to take this on without the detective’s input.
---
Sherlock awoke to the soft clattering of a keyboard. John was sitting beside him, one hand in his hair and the other scrolling down a long list of links.

"Hi John," he said, at once pleased John hadn't left him and dismayed that he hadn't yet reverted to his normal age.

"Hello, love," John replied with a kiss on his head. "What do you want for tea?"

"Ah, toast."

"You need to eat more than that, silly!" John grinned at him and ruffled his curls, patting his new bear's head for good measure. "You want to grow up big and strong, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded very seriously. "Yes. Wh- um, what should I eat then?"

John's grin faded into a soft smile. "Toast is fine for now, love." He set his laptop on the bed (it was open to a childcare page and Sherlock's heart caught in his throat) and swung his legs over the side. "I'll bring it to you. Do you need help getting dressed? Or do you want a bath first?"

Sherlock didn't particularly like baths, so he shook his head and slid out of the bed after John. His fingers were less dexterous than he remembered them being, but after a bit of fumbling he was in one of his few tshirts and a pair of black jeans. He struggled with the button until John, toast in hand, came back into the room and helped him.

"It is difficult," the doctor conceded. "You'll learn with a bit of time." Sherlock diligently ate his toast and watched John continue to search toddler and young child care, almost disbelieving it was for him. All at once, Sherlock felt his mental age rachet up and he dropped his toast, running to the bathroom.

John was right behind him when he first started heaving, one gentle hand rubbing his back and the other pulling his overlong curls away from his face. "Oh darling, what's wrong? Are you getting sick?"

Sherlock huffed and pushed away from the toilet, using a hand towel to wipe his mouth. His head was swimming but he managed to grind out, "I am not a child, John. Do not treat me as such."

John looked confused for a moment. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"You do not have to... lie to me." Sherlock sat back against the edge of the bath and tried to catch his breath. “I know I have this problem. I’ve tried to stop it for as long as I’ve had it and nothing works. I’d prefer you never reference what you’ve seen again.”

“No, Sherlock.” John stood and planted his feet at hip-width--his preferred stance for making a point--and crossed his arms over his chest. “This isn’t a problem. It’s a… trait that you have. And I’m not going to let it go unless it’s for a good reason.”

Sherlock coughed and preemptively leaned over the toilet. “Why?” he rasped, wiping his mouth with the towel again.

The doctor sighed long-sufferingly. “You’re my best friend, Sherlock. And I wasn’t trying to placate you when I said I love you.” He took the towel from Sherlock’s limp hand, wet it, and proceeded to gently clean Sherlock’s face himself. “This is your body, your transport, as well as your mind telling you that it needs this experience to feel good about itself. I want to support you in that.”

“You’re not my nanny,” Sherlock said weakly, but his resolve was fading. John was offering something he had been looking for for more than a decade and turning it down was wreaking havoc on his brain. “You’re my flatmate. You have your own life. I don’t want to… to burden you with--”

John snorted as if Sherlock was amusing him and kissed his forehead, thankfully not commenting on the way Sherlock turned crimson. “I’m much more than your flatmate, Sherlock. Helping you is not a burden. You act like a child most of the time anyway.”

Sherlock chuckled despite himself and leaned more weight against him, burying his face in the crook of John’s neck. “I’ll wash up and get dressed again.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting in the sitting room, whether you’re regressed or not.”

After his shower, Sherlock did de-age. He felt inexplicably safe with John and his younger self responded to that, lowering his defenses until he was once again having trouble with the button on his jeans.

He walked into the sitting room, curls wet and dripping down the back of his shirt, eyes wide and a little embarrassed. “John?” he asked softly, waiting for the man to look up from the same book he had been reading when he told Sherlock where his block went. He staggered a little, leaning against the doorframe, and then John was there, hands on his face, a kiss on the bridge of his nose.

“Calm, love. We’re getting you a new set today, remember?” John stared into Sherlock’s wide eyes as if checking his mental state (lacking, the one part of Sherlock that always retained its identity thought wryly) before helping him button his trousers. “Want to order them online or go to the toy store?”

Sherlock bit his lip and shrugged one shoulder. He’d rather not be whispered about in the store; he didn’t like crowds and that was harder for him to hide when he was little. “On-online,” he mumbled eventually.

The doctor nodded very seriously. “Of course. Come sit with me.” He let Sherlock curl up on the sofa beside him, wrapped him in a blanket, and gently tugged at him until he rested his head on John’s shoulder. “Let’s look together, okay? And you can tell me which ones you like best.”

It was a bit surreal. Sherlock couldn’t remember a time he had felt so comfortable in his own skin (John was absently running his fingers through his hair again, switching between tabs of toys to his still open pages on guardianship like he was really going through with all of it) and couldn’t really think past how odd it felt.

A phone vibrated on the coffee table and John leaned forward to get it, displacing Sherlock and earning a groan. “Sorry,” John laughed, tucking Sherlock under his arm. “It’s Lestrade. I’ll tell him--”

Sherlock nearly knocked John’s computer from his lap with his sudden movement, wrapping his arms around John’s waist and burying his face in John’s jumper. “No.”

John, infinitely patient, locked his phone again. “No what?”

“Don’t tell him about th-this. About anything.”

“He’ll want to know you’re not taking the case.”

Sherlock looked up. “I… we can stay?”

“We haven’t gotten your blocks yet, love.” John rolled his eyes and dropped the phone onto his lap. “I don’t know exactly how you return to your chronological age but I won’t force you.”

The phone vibrated again and Sherlock watched it make it’s way across John’s thigh. “We d- ah, we don’t have to get them.” It was very unlikely that Sherlock would continue to get what he wanted, so he would make the best of it.

John frowned and shook his head. “We do. And I know what you’re thinking, love, it’s written all over your face.” Sherlock felt his cheeks heat and hid his face. “I don’t think I can explain it to you while you’re so little, because you don’t really have the experience to understand.”

The young detective nodded. “When I’m older. When I'm the right age,” he agreed. “What, um, what kind of blocks are we going to get?”

“What kind do you want?” Sherlock looked around and tilted his head in a child-like mimicry of thinking and John laughed brightly and cupped his cheek to recapture his attention. “What’s your favourite color, love? Or your favourite animal?”

Sherlock sat up quickly and grinned. “My favourite ami- ami- aminal--” Now frustrated, Sherlock quieted and folded his hands in his lap, mouthing the word silently. “M-my favourite… an-i-mal is the bee!” John’s proud expression was, quite frankly, priceless. Sherlock firmly believed he could live on John’s happiness.

“Bees are very cute and fuzzy,” John said, scrolling through more blocks. “These have bees on them, love.”

Sherlock leaned over him and peered very carefully at the pictured stack of blocks: dark blue, with different numbers of bees on one side and letters on the other, all the way up to twenty six. "I like... I like the colours, also. I like how the colours are."

"I like them too." John put the blocks in the virtual trolley and continued to scroll.

Sherlock's smile slipped from his face. "Um, what...?" he began, frowning down at the laptop.

"Hm?"

"We... are we or- um, ordering them?"

The detective, even when younger than normal, could observe everything around him much better than anyone else. He saw John try to tamp down his anger and disbelief and sighed, hugging his knees to his chest. He always said something wrong, didn’t he?

“We are. After we get you a few more toys.”

Sherlock pressed his forehead to his knees and linked his fingers together. “No thank you.” It was like a physical pain in his chest to refuse, but it was necessary. “I… um, I only-- I only need one t-toy. Thank you, um, John.”

“Listen.” John got up off the sofa to kneel in front of Sherlock, gently lifting his head and looking into his eyes. “I understand that you never had this. I want to spoil you, Sherlock. I’ll get you as many gifts as you want. I’ll get you anything you want to make you happy.” The corners of his mouth tipped up. “Within reason, but that parameter is more for your adult self.”

It was an inevitability of returning to childhood, a time that was mostly avoidance of loving contact and learning as much as his mind could handle, that Sherlock burst into tears again. “I’m sorry,” he wailed, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around John’s neck.

“Oh, love, I didn’t mean to make you sad,” said John, rubbing Sherlock’s back and kissing the side of his head. “I was just telling you the truth. Here, how about we take a break and get you something more substantial than toast."

Sherlock gripped John tighter when he tried to get up, but not as tight as he could have as an adult. "No th-thank you," he sobbed, trying his hardest to be polite despite his sadness.

"All right, all right," John cooed. He sat back, pulling Sherlock off the couch and into his lap, and pressed Sherlock's head to his shoulder. "I think part of this is confusion and part is exhaustion. You only slept for an hour and its been almost four days since your grown up self really laid down!"

Sherlock nodded against him. "I just want one block, John!" he insisted almost unintelligibly.

"I know," John continued to shush. "That's okay, Sherlock. You'll feel better after a long sleep and some food."

This was getting out of control. Sherlock didn't mean to sink this far with John (he didn't mean for any of this to happen, he wanted to cut this defect out of himself). The problem was, now he couldn't pull away. He clung to John as they stood, his face still hidden. "I didn't want this," he sniffed.

John, wonderful, understanding John, just stroked the back of his head and continued to whisper, "I know. I know, love, it's all right."
---
After a more substantial meal, Sherlock calmed enough for John to look for toys with him. The doctor let Sherlock sit across his lap, his slight frame and quite frankly absence of weight making up for how much taller than John he was. They didn't get much, just a few colourful blankets and some simple puzzles, before Sherlock buried his face in John's chest and refused to look at any more.

John ordered everything with his own card (it wouldn't be much of a gift if Sherlock paid for it) and carried Sherlock to his room (he was so worryingly light; John was sure Sherlock would be surprised that John could carry him more than a few steps were he older, but in this state, all he did was drift between sleep and wakefulness as John walked through the sitting room and down the hall) so he could get a proper rest.

John wasn't worried about the aftermath anymore. After months upon months of Sherlock's strops and black days, a little identity crisis wouldn't bother him at all.

Sherlock was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He didn't notice John kiss his forehead or pull the duvet up to his chin or leave the room, shutting the door softly behind himself.

John sighed, wide awake now, and sat at the recently cleared kitchen table with his laptop. Sarah had very patiently helped him learn to make excel spreadsheets--even as she admonished, "You're thirty five, not seventy five."--and he was going to use them to track Sherlock's regression cycle. If his first childhood was shite, his second wouldn't be.

Chapter Text

Sherlock lay in bed for at least fifteen minutes after he woke up, just staring at the ceiling. He could hear John moving around in the flat; it was comforting, knowing someone else that didn't want to hurt him was so nearby. His head didn't hurt as bad as it normally did when he came back up to his real age, and that was a plus.

He sat up slowly, not really knowing what he intended to do once he left his room, but before he could make the decision John came in with a cup of tea in his hands. His bright smile, obviously for the younger version of Sherlock, softened around the edges when he realised his age.

"Good morning, love. Or good afternoon really."

Sherlock felt a pang of something that wasn't quite sadness shoot through him and held his breath, gripping the sheets on either side of him as tightly as he could. He didn't think John would really use endearments for his real self, his older self.

As if reading his mind, John chuckled and ruffled his already wild hair. "While we're at home, they won't stop." It sounded like less of a statement and more of an offer when paired with John's 'reserved for Sherlock' smile.

Sherlock could have said a lot of things. A lot of cruel things, throwing what John did for him back in his face. He could have refused to be loved. "Thank you," is what he said instead, carefully wrapping his arms around John's waist and holding tightly.

He felt more than heard John set his tea down on the nightstand and respond in kind, stroking the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. "It's the least I could do, Sherlock. And I'm happy to do it."

Sherlock didn't like to be vulnerable, but here he was, split open, practically laid bare by an army doctor in his mid thirties with the deepest blue eyes and most inexplicably comforting smile he had ever seen. "Even so," he mumbled into John's stomach. "Thank you."

John gave him a sharp squeeze. "You're very welcome."