Chapter Text
"...John?"
John ignored it, and went on reading his paper (the one he'd been trying to read all day), still trying his best to comprehend the article he'd been staring at for the past 20 minutes alone.
Someone was making that a tad difficult, though.
Trying again..."John?"
He braced his shoulders' and buried his face further into his paper.
There was a loud huff! of air from the direction of the sofa, then...."JAWWWWWWWWN!!!"
John involuntarily clenched both fists, crinkling the pages. He sighed, and with no small bit of effort, willed himself to ease the tension out of his hands. "Let me guess...bored?" he asked, dryly.
Sherlock snorted. "Obviously," was his reply, and John could clearly hear the 'you bloody idiot' that his tone implied. No, not implied...stated.
With a groan low in his throat, John rubbed his face with both hands; paper set aside in resignation. Boredom never meant good things with Sherlock...the man couldn't be simple and pick up a book to read, or click around on the telly for a show, or even take a stroll through the park-no, thing's with Sherlock were never 'simple'.
NEVER.
Learning to hide his gun, along with his bullets, however...that had been fairly simple.
John waved his arm in the direction of the kitchen weakly, already knowing the answer to his next question, but asking anyway.
'Don't you have some sort of experiment to work on?...Extra limbs or intestines to poke at?"
'Fingernails to set fire to...?'
The lanky man sniffed and flopped over onto his belly, eyes peering at the doctor from over the arm of the battered sofa. "Finished them all this morning; all results turning out as predicted. Boring."
John closed his eyes and counted to five. 'I swear, it's like dealing with a three year old.' Although, all things considered, he would certainly trade dealing with a tantruming toddler than a tantruming Sherlock anyday. At least you could put a three year old in a time-out.
He shook his head...that train of thought, while mildly hilarious, wasn't helping him now.
"What on earth are you smiling about, man?" his flatmate snapped, head popping up to scowl at him. "Is the deterioration of my mind from having no cases to exercise itself upon funny to you?"
Actually, John was completely unaware he'd even been grinning; the very image of a pouting Sherlock being made to stand facing the corner was highly, HIGHLY amusing.
He allowed himself a small chuckle, then picked his previously abandoned paper back up, flicking to the familiar article. "I honestly have no idea what to tell you, Sherlock...you're a grown man, contrary to what your behavior suggests, so figure something out yourself." He punctuated his last word with a snap of the page.
The near-murderous look Sherlock was giving him at that moment was enough to give any onlooker the worry of the paper in John's hand spontaneously bursting into flames; the seething tone in his voice nearly doing the job itself. "Some bloody help you ar---!" he began shouting, then paused.
John looked back up, curious at the abrupt silence, yet bracing for the rest of the verbal onslaught he expected was still coming his way.
But the expression on his flatmate's face had changed considerably. In place of smoldering rage, there was what John had come to call Sherlock's 'thinking face'. The detective's lips pressed together in a tight line, corners' turned down into not-quite-a-frown, eyes' wrinkling at the edge's.
A moment later, Sherlock finally spoke up again, his tone no longer holding an edge. "What did you mean," he began, eyes flicking over to meet John's, "when you said 'contrary to what my behavior suggests'?"
John's mind went blank; is that what he had said? Yes, he supposed he did, taking into account what he'd been thinking moments before. He gazed back into the eyes that were bearing into him. "Well, think about it, man..." Sherlock's eyebrows quirked up at that, as if to say, 'Really? You're telling ME to think?'. John held up his hand. "I know, I know...trust me, I have NOT forgotten who I'm talking to." The eyebrows lowered. "But really, what I'm getting at, is..." It was John's turn to pause, searching for the best way to put it. "Who's more likely to pitch a fit over not being entertained; a grown man, or a whingy toddler?"
The eyes narrowed, and he found himself wondering if he was going to have to carry on the rest of the conversation with Sherlock's facial expressions. "Are you suggesting that I'm being a...a baby?!" the man spat.
A mental sigh...'So much for that.'
John quickly snapped back to his former indignation and squared his shoulders; it was out on the table now. "I'm not suggesting, I'm STATING!" he spat back.
Now, if it were physically possible for the human brain to make sound, Mrs. Hudson would have wondered why a train was coming to a screeching halt in the flat above her. He could practically see the sparks and smoke shooting out of Sherlock's ears, in any case.
Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times, apparently taken aback....which was quite amazing to John. It wasn't everyday someone managed to get one over on the worlds' only consulting detective.
Well...there was Irene, and Mycroft, of course...but he had no problem admitting that he was nowhere near either of their intellectual levels.
So, in light of such an occasion, he decided to take advantage of his formidable friend's speechlessness.
"Oh, don't even act like that's some horrific insult! You know exactly what you're doing and why you do it; for attention! I mean, look at this right now...I was perfectly content to sit and read the paper-the paper I didn't have time to read this morning, because someone decided to muck about with my alarm clock, thank you for that-and you couldn't stand it! I don't know if you either didn't get enough attention as a child, or too MUCH, but it's absolutely ridiculous...I'll tell you one thing, though; If I was your da', I'dve nipped this problem real quick, with a right good smack!"
He finished his long-winded rant with a deep breath, not really expecting a response. Which, knowing Sherlock, was pretty much a given. John has one of these diatribes at least once a month now, so the only thing he expects anymore is catching a glance of dark, bouncy curls' as Sherlock flounces (yes, the man flounces) away.
This time, though, John could swear he caught the beginnings' of tears sheening Sherlock's eyes before he leapt off the couch (no man with limbs that long should be able to move that quickly) and bounded up the stairs to his room, barricading himself in with a slam and (what sounded like to John) a sniffle.
John rubbed his face and sighed, a bit of his own earlier frustration ebbing away into guilt. He'd obviously touched a nerve; however devoutly Sherlock claimed not to have feelings, he was still human, dammit, and the last thing John had wanted to do was hurt them.
Right, well....better go check on him, then.
John hauled himself out of his chair with a grunt...psychosomatic or not, the London weather had been living up to it notoriety in the recent weeks, and all the damp was wreaking hell on his leg.
A memory wriggled its way into his forethoughts'; a memory of his own da' struggling to climb up out of his armchair, all groans, moans, and popping joints, to deal with him or Harry, one.
He gave a not-alltogether-bitter chuckle. Now he knew exactly why his da' had always shouted 'not to make me come get you!'
Managing to hobble over to the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and looked up at the landing. Was it such a brilliant idea to go knock and enter Sherlock's room after such a hissy? Probably not, he decided. Might get a book lobbed at him for his troubles.
A peace offering sounded good (and he was already in the mood for a cuppa himself), so he ambled into the kitchen to search among the jars' of viscera for clean mugs, as well as Sherlock's favorite tea.
Just as John had the tea steeping and was stood there at the countertop, stirring the milk into his (for once, they had fresh, uncontaminated milk this week), and sugar into Sherlock's, when he heard the stairs creaking.
He turned slowly, still stirring his own tea, and leaned back against the edge of the counter. Keeping his eyes' focused on his mug, he watched the swirling patterns and trails his spoon made while waiting to see if his friend would speak; when he remained silent, John looked up.
'Now, that's a bit of a surprise'...the sight that greeted him wasn't at all what he'd expected. What he had been expecting, really, was a still-huffy-but-not-going-to-admit-it-even-at-the-threat-of-torture flatmate breezing into the kitchen as if John weren't standing there, planting himself in front of the microscope with a soil sample (or a beetle specimen indigenous to Zimbabwe; you never know), and ignoring him for the rest of the evening.
What he got, though, was Sherlock leaning against the doorframe, fiddling with the bottom hem of his robe and undeniably trying to not look at John.
Was he...Was he acting contrite?
Sherlock glanced up then, caught John's eye, and quickly glanced back down.
'Well, so he is...'
It was then that John got a bit of a 'wild hair'...like earlier, it wasn't often (if ever) that anyone caught Sherlock so out of sorts, and here it is, happening not once, but twice in one day.
And John was going to run with it.
'Hell, apologies can wait until later.'
"Something on your mind, then?" he asked, tapping the last drop of tea off his spoon before dropping it into the sink.
Sherlock kept fidgeting with the cloth in his hands, worrying it to the point that John was afraid it was going to fall apart in a matter of seconds. He mumbled something, but John could make no discernible words out.
"Come again?"
He mumbled slightly louder.
"Oh, for God'sakes, Sherlock! Look at me, would you???"
The other man's head popped up and met John's gaze as his hands flew behind his back. He noticed the uncharacteristic motion, but he was more interested in finding out what his flatmate had been muttering.
"Now, say that again, where I can hear you this time."
Sherlock inhaled deeply, then exhaled in an agonizingly slow manner. "Just that....it's just that you were correct, you know....earlier."
John simply stood there for a moment, wondering if he'd heard correctly, decided that yes, indeed he had, and barked out a humorless laugh as he realized what Sherlock meant.
"Is this about me calling you a baby? Look, I know that was kind of a dickish thing to say, and I'm sor-"
"No!" Sherlock snapped, cutting him off. John cocked an eyebrow.
"I mean, no," he said, closing his eyes and crossing his arms. "Don't apologize, John. And that's not what I was referring to...though you were astute in that observation, as well." The man's voice had lowered back down to barely above a mumble, and John, for one, was getting more than a tad fed up with this game of verbal 'roundabout.
His leg was also getting fed up.
John groaned as he heaved himself away from the counter, partially out of pain, and partially out of irritation. He pulled out one of the chairs (the least stained one) at the table and sat down heavily, motioning to the one on the other side. "Sit. Now."
Sherlock hesitated the slightest bit, then pulled the chair out and sat, picking the hem of his robe back up.
Before he'd shoved off the counter, John had grabbed the other mug of tea, and he pushed it over towards his friend.
"Now," he said, sitting back. "It's getting late, and as you are very well aware, Sherlock, my brain is just not capable of firing off as quickly as yours. So let me say one thing, uninterrupted," He gave the other man a pointed look, "and then I want you to stop talking in damned circles and spit out what you've got to say, alright?"
Sherlock frowned, but nodded.
"Ok, great...as I was starting to say earlier; I am sorry for being short with you," he held up one finger as Sherlock's mouth opened to protest, already forgetting what John had just said about interruptions, but surprisingly enough, he closed it again and let John continue. "But, I'm not sorry for what I said, now that I think about it. I meant every word; I'm just sorry for the way I said it. I should've kept my temper, and not snapped at you."
Jesus, it really was like talking to a small child.
The entire time he'd been talking, Sherlock kept switching back and forth between wrapping his hands around his tea, or fiddling with that damned robe. John cleared his throat, and waited until the other man met his gaze again.
'How in the fuck could someone who has no issue with violating one's personal space have such an inhibition about eye contact, for Christ'sakes'?'
John shook his head; he was never going to understand Sherlock completely.
"Your turn. What was all that about me being 'right'?" He raised his own tea for a sip.
Silence.
Just as John was ready to regret saying he shouldn't have lost his temper, Sherlock finally spoke up.
"When you stated that I either got too much attention, or not enough...your deduction was quite correct," that low, baritone voice murmured.
Though, even as low as it was, John still caught the edge of sarcasm on 'deduction'. He fought the smirk that was struggling against his lips.
"Ah, I see...well, which is it, then?" He took another sip of tea.
"...Both."
The smirk lost, and a bemused expression took its place. 'I'm sorry?"
Sherlock sighed and held his face in his hands. "You. Were. Right. On. Both. Do try and keep up, John."
"Yes, yes, I'm back to being an idiot, I know. How does that work, though? Too much attention, but not enough...?"
"Father was absent most of the time...he hadn't completely abandoned us, mind you, his business associates wouldn't have looked favorably upon that...He just had no patience for children; especially brilliant children he had no hopes of keeping up with. "
John grunted. "Sound's familiar."
Sherlock shot him a withering glance, and John held up his hand. 'Sorry, sorry...go on, please."
He did. "Mummy was much more present, and substantially more affectionate than Father...but, she was also a very 'fragile' woman, and after a child like Mycroft, wasn't keen on dealing with another with such a level of intellect. That, and I'm often told I was what is referred to as a 'handful'. "
'Oh, if that is not the fucking understatement of the century...' John thought, grinning again.
"...What are you smiling about now?" his flatmate snapped, already back on defensive mode.
"Mycroft may have mentioned something about pirates, once..." he responded, giggling.
"Oh, please!" Sherlock huffed, indignant. "Of course he wouldn't remember that I was a buccaneer, not a pirate!"
John busted out laughing at that one, and the sneer plastered all over his friend's face didn't help matters.
Once the giggles died down and he caught his breath again (which was no easy feat with the look on Sherlock's face; every time John looked back at him, it set him off again.), John was able to collect himself enough to ask a serious question.
"So, let me guess...with your dad out of the picture , for the most part, and your mum not able to deal with you...you and Mycroft kept getting passed to someone else?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No, My was already at University at that point...it was just me. I was the one passed on to all numbers of nurses and nannies."
'Ah, that's the case, then...' "Not enough attention from the one's that mattered, and all the rest gave in to everything you wanted," John figured. The other man looked down into his now-cool tea, and nodded.
"I'm sorry about that, Sherlock...I really am. It's never right for a kid to get shuffled around like that."
But there was another question nagging at him. "What about the nannies and the like? Were they all nice enough?" John was seriously hoping a good answer. Kids getting mistreated was one thing that really got his temper up.
Sherlock made a dismissive noise. "Of course they were...my parents controlled their pay. And all were easy enough to manipulate, anyway."
'Of course...' he thought, rolling his eyes. Not quite the answer he had hoped for, but it wasn't surprising. "Right, right...so, quite literally, you just never grew out of that 'spoiled brat' phase."
"Must we have the discussion on the misuse of the word 'literally' again, John?"
'Bastard.'
"Don't dodge the point, you prat....face it, you're just a big kid."
An odd look crossed Sherlock's face; one that John couldn't quite discern. It looked like a bundle of different emotions; anxiety being the prevalent one...a bit of eagerness, too? Perhaps a little anger?
The odd cluster wasn't what was unnerving him, though...it was more the fact that this was the most emotion Sherlock had ever shown, period. Even his outburst during the Hound case hadn't been this turbulent.
"Sherlock?..." he said gently, starting to worry at the silence from the other. "Is there anything else?" His mind was already reeling with all sorts of horrible possibilities that could be at play here.
Just as he was beginning to suspect that this was going to be one of the man's hours-long silent periods, Sherlock stood up suddenly, and left the kitchen without a word.
John groaned. 'Crap, what now...?'
The minutes ticked by...Sherlock must have retreated back to his room.
'Sod this...I'm going to bed.'
He'd just cleared away and washed both mugs when he turned back to the table and discovered his flatmate back in his original spot, along with John's laptop.
John jumped. "Seriously, I'm putting a fuckin' bell on you...!"
Sherlock smirked, but the expression was humorless. "You're the one who asked if there was anything else, John...I just thought it would be easier to show you." He motioned for John to sit back down, and once he did, turned the screen towards him.
There, at the top of the page: AGE PLAY
It took a minute to process what he was reading; he wasn't a prude, by any stretch...he'd dated all sorts of women, and there had inevitably been a few with odd kinks and fetishes (the one bird that had gotten off on being tickled, now THAT had been a fun one), so he'd heard of this one in passing-but Sherlock? With a fetish? This particular fetish, of all people?
'Well, this'll teach me for ever assuming anything about the prick...'
He continued to read, casting sideways glances over the man sitting opposite of him. Sherlock was already in his default stasis...eyes closed, hands steepled in front of his face. He was probably running through every possible outcome of this scenario for the umpteenth time.
Reaching the end of that article, he noticed that there were several other tabs open, all pertaining to the same topic, ranging from more articles explaining different psychological aspects behind it, all the way to personal blogs from other age player's and websites selling adult-sized baby accessories like cribs and clothing.
Leave it to Sherlock to be as thorough as fuckin' possible...
Once finished browsing, he sat back and did some thinking. It was a lot of information to absorb all at once, but the more he thought, the more it made sense...it just fit. Sherlock's behavior, past and present, from the day he'd handed over his phone until now...and from what he'd learned about his childhood just a short while ago; all of it fit together like one of those 3-D jigsaw puzzles you see in stores.
There was just one thing he wanted to be absolutely clear on.
"Sherlock?"
He waited until heavy lids lifted and bright blue eyes pierced into his.
"Yes?" One eyebrow cocked.
John smiled....'always on guard, this one...'
"Stop worrying so damn much...its fine. I told you before, it's all fine."
Sherlock's shoulders eased down, slowly, and John realized just how tense he'd been this entire time.
He chuckled, trying to ease things a bit more. "Look, if you want to have someone come up and coddle you up, just let me know ahead of time and I'll clear out for the da-"
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.
"Ughhhh!" Sherlock threw up his hands and stood abruptly, nearly toppling his chair. He began to pace. "No, that's not the point at all, John! If I wanted someone else to come in, don't you think I could have without alerting you in the slightest?!?"
John paused. Well...he was at surgery most days. And knowing Sherlock, the man could have been running the Russian circus out of the flat if he'd wanted, and John would never be the wiser.
But why...?
Oh.
OH.....
"Wait wait wait wait, WAIT....you've been telling me all this, showing me all this, because...?"
Sherlock stopped his pacing; his robe once again occupying his hands. "Because...I thought that you'd perhaps be interested in...in helping me indulge."
"Sherlock, I..." John really didn't know what to say.
"And," his friend popped in, "because I trust you. I can't think of anyone better."
Dammit. 'Proceed with caution!' his brain screamed at him. He sighed. "I thought we cleared this; I'm not ga-"
"It's not a sex thing, John!" Sherlock shouted. He seemed...well, he seemed desperate. "Didn't you read at all? Everything I pulled up was on the non-sexual aspect!"
John flicked back through each page....Indeed, they were.
"...You just want me to baby you?"
A slight blush. "No...not so much as 'baby', really...look, see how some people attribute to different ages, in varying degree's?" He leaned over John to click on one tab in specific. John just sat back and listened.
"...so, I don't feel young enough for crawling, or baby talk and bottles. Nappies, " he hesitated and looked to John for a reaction. John just gazed back, listening in earnest. Sherlock cleared his throat, and went on. "I...I might want to try those later on, but we don't have to start with them," he finished quickly.
John was silent...Jesus, this was an evening full of hesitation and pregnant pauses-
'Pregnant pauses,' he snorted.
He noticed that Sherlock was watching him intently; probably already aware of what John was going to say before he even knew himself.
"...What do you want to call me?" he finally asked.
Sherlock sat back down heavily and twisted his robe so roughly that John thought he was for sure going to rip it this time.
John figured that he knew this answer, this time. He'd already been right once this evening, why not shoot for a twofer?
"You just want to be taken care of, is that right? To come home and shed the 'Detective'...and to just stop thinking for awhile, eh?" he said gently.
Fresh tears began sheening the eyes that met his. "Yes." A mere breath of a whisper. "More than anything. They just don't stop, John, all the details and facts and thoughts and voices and images..." the voice broke.
John stood and stepped over to the man, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and held him against his chest.
Sherlock turned his face into John's jumper, and let out a muffled sob.
"Shhh..." he said, running a hand through dark, curly hair. "We'll get it sorted, ok? It'll be alright..." John patted his back and rubbed his shoulder until the sobs stopped, then he shifted back and took Sherlock's face into his hand, slowly lifting it until he was looking down into red-rimmed eyes.
"I want to hear you say it, Sherlock...tell me who you need me to be."
Sherlock bit his lip and tried to look down, but John had a firm grip on his chin. "Ah-ah, look at me and answer."
John felt him swallow hard before those perfectly-pronounced lips parted and said, albeit haltingly, "D...Daddy?"
Cute and sweet. Two words that, had anyone ever used them to describe Sherlock Holmes (or even use them in the same sentence), John would have laughed until he got sick on himself.
But right now, with the man's face cradled in his hand, eyes' still shiny with tears, lips now in a slight pout...Sherlock Holmes was the cutest, sweetest fucking thing he'd ever seen.
"Good boy..." he said, grinning like...well, like an idiot.
Sherlock heaved a shaky sigh and smiled back, wrapping his arms around John's waist and squeezing.
They stayed like that for who knows how long, until John caught sight of the clock on the wall.
"Oh, for...it is waaaaay past bedtime."
Sherlock dug himself out of the burrow his nose had made in John's jumper to look up at him and frown. "But there's still so much to discuss...!"
John put his finger up to the man's-
(His boy's?)
-lips. "And we can wait to continue this discussion tomorrow after I get home. It's Friday, so if you've behaved yourself 'til then, we can stay up a little later and hash out the details...then we can start the weekend proper."
Sherlock pursed his lips and thought. "Yes," he said at last. "That makes the most sense. Less likely to be interrupted that way, as well. Plenty of time for Mrs. Hudson to clear out for a sudden weekend trip, too."
John chuckled. "Glad you see things my way, for once."
Back in his full, snarky glory, Sherlock stood and sniffed, "Sarcasm isn't your strong suit, John."
He had to laugh. "Oh, back to 'John' already, is it? I think I preferred 'Daddy'..."
The blush was back, creeping high up on those outlandish cheekbones, and with a twirl of his robe, John's consulting three year old flounced out of the room and back up the stairs. "Not funny, Jawn!"
"...Does that mean you don't want me to tuck you in?"
SLAM!
Giggling hysterically, John gathered up his laptop and headed for his own room.
He had a bit more research of his own to do.