John Watson took a bite of his toast. Strawberry jam, his favorite. And peace and quiet. Early morning, one of the only times when he could get some time to himself in the flat without Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, the world's worst flatmate. John's flatmate. Just his luck that he would get stuck with the world's only consulting detective, the man who could tell you where you'd been last night by taking one look at your socks, but didn't even know how to turn on the stove.
John sighed and took a sip of his coffee. He spit it out immediately, gagging. Taking the cup to the sink he poured the coffee out and watched as it trickled down, a brown stream mixed with yellow. Peering at the bottom of the cup he noticed a piss colored lump molded to the cup bottom.
"Sherlock," he muttered angrily, setting the cup down in the sink.
"What," a low voice growled from behind him. John turned around. Sherlock was walking into the kitchen, dressed in his blue robe. His hair stuck up on one side and he yawned enormously. It was obvious that he had just woken up. He pulled out a chair and slumped down in it, folding his thin arms over his chest.
"What is this?" John asked, showing the cup to Sherlock.
Sherlock examined it, cocked an eyebrow and then said, "No idea. But I wouldn't drink from that cup anymore." He smiled.
John tossed the cup in the sink and shoved the last bite of toast into his mouth. Sherlock watched him through had lidded eyes.
John swallowed his toast and turned toward Sherlock. "I'm going to get dressed. Try not to blow anything up." Sherlock snorted. John rolled his eyes and prayed that the kitchen would be intact upon his return.
The kitchen was unchanged when John finally returned to it, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly a cry erupted from the sitting room.
"JOHN!"
John rushed into the room. "What the hell is go-"
Sherlock was standing on the sofa, his eyes wide, staring at the floor. On that floor was a small boy, sitting cross legged, looking up at Sherlock with fascination.
"John!" Sherlock screamed, jumping off the sofa. Running over to the army doctor, Sherlock ducked behind him.
"Where did it come from?" Sherlock whispered into John's ear, pointing to the boy.
John looked down at the child. He was still on the floor, but he had turned so that he could face the two men. He was a small boy, probably about three years old, with a messy mop of dark brown hair. He was dressed in dull plaid shorts and a shirt which depicted what looked like a trash can yelling "Exterminate!" His feet were clad in small, maroon trainers.
John walked over and bent down in front of the boy. The child watched him with playful green eyes.
"Hullo," John said, smiling. The boy gave a little smile.
"Who are you?"
The boy grinned from ear to ear and then hopped up and scampered around John. He ran at Sherlock and hid behind the detective's long legs. Poking his head out from behind Sherlock, the boy gave a laugh and grabbing a fistful of Sherlock's robe he held it in front of his face.
Sherlock was stiff as a board, his cat like eyes staring straight ahead as the boy hugged him around the legs. John suppressed a laugh as Sherlock's eyes widened and he stared down at the boy as thought the child was threatening to kill him.
"Come here you little rascal," John said stooping down to pick up the boy. The child had other ideas though. He screeched and ran from John's outstretched arms and down the hallway, where he could be seen peeking around the wall. The boy let out a high pitched shriek of joy and pointed at Sherlock. Sherlock jumped and ducked behind John, using the blogger as a shield.
"What is it?" Sherlock whispered.
"It's a kid, Sherlock," John said, exasperated. Sherlock was being ridiculous. "It's just a kid, it can't hurt you."
"Yes is can," Sherlock contradicted, hiding behind John as the boy came to stand in front of them.
The child crossed his small arms and stuck out his bottom lip, pouting. Then he pointed a tiny finger at Sherlock and said something in child gibberish.
"It wants to kill me," Sherlock hissed from behind John.
"It does not," John retorted. Then he addressed the boy.
"What's your name?"
"Pond!" the child shrieked, his eyes dancing merrily.
"Pond?" Odd name for a child, John thought.
The boy sucked on his thumb for a moment before shouting, "No! Doctor!"
"Doctor?" The boy nodded gleefully.
"It's delirious," Sherlock muttered, stepping out from behind John to examine the boy.
"I think it's, I mean he, is a Doctor Who fan," John said, glad that he had stayed up late that one night to watch that strange show on the telly with the blue police box.
"It's crazy," Sherlock mumbled, still watching the child warily.
The boy had resumed sucking his thumb and was looking up at Sherlock with awe. He put out a hand and his fingers grasped the air as though asking for something.
"What's it doing?" Sherlock asked, backing away from the boy.
"Oh for god's sake, Sherlock," John said, bending down to pick up the boy. The boy buried his face in John's jumper and smiled around his thumb. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"What do we do with it?" he asked, keeping a safe distance.
"Uh, well," John muttered, "I guess we have to find where his parents are."
"Of course," Sherlock said. Then he leaned down so that he was eye level with the boy. "State your place of origin," he said, looking at the child expectantly.
"Sherlock, he's a child," John said, rolling his eyes. He looked at the boy. "Where are your parents? Hmmm? Mum and dad?"
The boy blinked a few times and then said, "Gone."
"Gone? Gone where?"
"Gone! Gone! Gone!" the boy screamed excitedly before hooking his arms around John's neck and pressing his tiny nose into John's chest.
"Gone?" Sherlock said angrily, "What are we supposed to make of that?"
"Dunno," John replied shrugging. He walked over to the sofa and sat down, propping the boy up on his knee. Sherlock sat down in his chair and pressed his fingertips together, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and bringing his fingers up so that the tips of his pointers brushed his nose. The boy scampered off John's lap and over to Sherlock and then proceeded to climb up into the offended detective's lap.
"Get it off me," Sherlock growled, staring with hatred at the object in his lap.
"No," John said, crossing his arms. "He likes you, and you're being ridiculous. It's a child Sherlock, not a parasite." The boy sneezed and Sherlock gripped the arms of his chair.
"Just tell me how to get rid of it!" Sherlock yelled as the boy wiped his nose on his sleeve.
"Mrs. Hudson!" John yelled, resorting to the ever useful Plan B.
Their housekeeper padded into the room, a dishtowel draped over one arm.
"You boys need something?" she asked, cheerily.
"Yes," Sherlock said standing up. Holding the child at arm's length he said, "Get rid of this."
"Oh my heavens!" Mrs. Hudson cried grabbing the child and bouncing him on her hip. "Where did you come from sweet thing?"
"We don't know," John said, "He just kinda showed up."
"What's your name, sweetie?" Mrs. Hudson asked the boy, ruffling his hair.
"Arthur," the boy whispered, loud enough for Sherlock and John to hear.
"So it's not Pond or Doctor, then?" John asked, glad that he had called for Mrs. Hudson.
"Arthur!" the boy said, laughing merrily. "No Pond! Nope!" He grinned.
"Right then," John said leaning back on the sofa.
Mrs. Hudson came to sit on the sofa next to John. "Where are his parents?" she asked as Arthur went to go sit between her and John.
"He won't tell us," John replied as Sherlock reclaimed his seat.
"Well they must be worried sick," Mrs. Hudson commented. "You boys should take him down to the Yard with you. I'm sure Greg could help in finding his parents."
"Sounds fine," Sherlock said, getting up from his chair and switching his robe for his coat. "The sooner we get rid of it the better," he mumbled stepping outside.
"He would make the worst father," John mused as he pulled on his coat.
Mrs. Hudson nodded before saying, "It's a bit chilly out there. Don't want little Arthur to catch cold. Give me a moment." She scampered out of the flat, leaving John alone with Arthur. John looked over at Arthur who was playing with the lace of his shoe. Arthur sneezed again and John grabbed a dishtowel that was flung over a chair. He proceeded to wipe the boy's nose before Arthur's sleeve could be used.
Mrs. Hudson scampered back into the room. She held up a tiny, brown jacket and mused, "It might be a bit big, but I think it'll do. It's been sitting in my flat for ages. Glad to finally get some use out of it."
She pulled it on Arthur and then turned him around to see how it fit. It was a bit too large, the sleeves in particular, which fell down over Arthur's hands. Mrs. Hudson took the liberty of folding them up. Then she gave Arthur a quick pat on the head and ushered him out of the flat. John followed.
Sherlock had already hailed a cab and was waiting impatiently inside it. John grabbed Arthur and opened the door placing the boy in the middle of the cab, next to Sherlock. Then he waved a quick goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and slid in next to Arthur.
"Scotland Yard," John said to the cabbie, shutting the door. The cab sped off.
The cab ride was much different with a small child. Every time the cab hit a bump in the road, Arthur would giggle. He would occasionally try to get a better view by climbing into either Sherlock or John's lap, usually Sherlock's, where he'd bounce up and down and point out the things that he knew the words too.
As soon as they arrived at New Scotland Yard, Sherlock bolted from the cab, eager to put distance between him and Arthur. John paid the cabbie and then followed with Arthur by his side. As they neared the looming building Arthur slipped his small hand into John's and held on tightly.
The last thing that anyone expected to see at Scotland Yard was Sherlock Holmes striding in, his coat billowing in his wake, followed closely by John Watson, who was holding onto the hand of a little boy. Anderson was the first to make a comment.
"Couldn't have one of your own so you decided to adopt, huh?" He sneered in the direction of Sherlock.
"Oh do shut up, Anderson," Sherlock retorted, glaring at Anderson. Anderson snorted, clearly believing his deduction to be true.
Greg Lestrade came around a corner, talking fast with Sally Donovan. "I'm telling you, we need to ask Sherlock about thi-" he paused mid sentence as he noticed the consulting detective standing in front of him.
"Nice of you to stop by," Lestrade said, walking into his office and beckoning for Sherlock to follow. "Got a new case. It's a real bugger." He went quiet as John and Arthur stepped into the office behind Sherlock.
"Who's this?" Lestrade asked, pointing to Arthur, his eyebrows raised.
"His name is Arthur, and he's not ours," John answered, sitting down in a chair and pulling Arthur into his lap.
"It appeared in our flat this morning, and we were rather hoping you could help us get rid of it," Sherlock mused going to stand by the window.
Lestrade sighed and said, "I'll see what I can do. Has he got a last name? Arthur what?"
"No!" Arthur screeched from John's lap, "Arthur Who!" his face broke into a wide grin and he laughed.
"Good luck trying to get it to make sense," Sherlock mumbled from the window.
Lestrade sat back in his chair, musing. "I suppose we can put out something in the paper. But the kid's gonna have to stay with you boys, cause no one here's gonna take him and god knows I can't."
"Still having problems with the wife?" Sherlock cut in.
"Sherlock," John hissed. Sherlock went quiet.
"I suppose we can keep him at the flat until we can find his parents," John offered.
Sherlock gagged. Spinning around quickly he said, "No. We can't. It'll get his grubby little hands all over my stuff. Not to mention they'll be no peace and quiet with it around." He glared at Arthur.
"Mrs. Hudson can take care of him, I'm sure she won't mind," John said, giving Sherlock a look.
"Fine," Sherlock growled, "But the moment it gets near my violin..." he mumbled something incoherent and went to go sulk by the window.
After getting everything worked out at the Yard, John, Sherlock, and Arthur returned to 221B to find a note pinned to the door. Sherlock snatched it down as John led Arthur into the sitting room. Sherlock came in a few moments later reading the end of the note loudly.
"I will be out for the day. Best of luck with Arthur! Hugs and kisses, Mrs. Hudson." He threw the note on the sofa next to John and sulked into the kitchen.
John picked up the note and read it quickly. Mrs. Hudson would be gone for the day, which meant that John was stuck caring for Arthur, and making sure that Sherlock wouldn't blow up anything.
"We're out of milk again," Sherlock yelled from the kitchen. John sighed and got up from the sofa, telling Arthur to stay put. He went into the kitchen and peered into the fridge over Sherlock's shoulder. Aside from a few cans of pickles, there was nothing edible, unless they wanted to try and consume the bag of mysterious chunky looking things that was shoved in the back of the fridge.
"Go get some milk," Sherlock ordered, going into the living room and plopping down in his chair across from Arthur.
John sighed and said, "Right. But you're staying here with Arthur."
Sherlock glared at John. "You really think that's a good idea? Might accidently blow him up." He smiled wryly.
"Nope," John said going to the door, "I know you can watch him for twenty minutes without causing World War Three." He smiled and headed out the door leaving Sherlock staring warily at the grinning child across from him.
John was sure he broke the record for world's fastest store trip, coming in at just under twelve minutes. This was good considering he ran there and back and that he wasn't exactly in the best shape of his life.
He walked into the flat expecting the worse, hoping that a table wouldn't be blocking the door, but instead he found Sherlock Holmes asleep on the sofa, with little Arthur sprawled out on top of him, both of them snoring away soundly, the ghost of a smile on Arthur's small features.
John couldn't help but smile himself. He wished his mobile was a camera phone. This would be something that the detective would never live down if John had picture evidence.
John set the groceries on the counter softly and then proceeded to look for Sherlock's mobile. Upon finding it he gleefully snapped a picture of the detective and the boy and then sent it to himself, reveling in the things he could use this picture for.
"That picture better be deleted," Sherlock growled from the sofa.
"Not happening," John gloated, slipping his phone into the safety of his pocket.
"It wouldn't stop moving unless I let it sit on my lap, where it proceeded to fall asleep," Sherlock explained looking down at Arthur, "And I think it drooled on me." John smirked and put the food into the fridge. He tore open a packet of popcorn and put in the microwave.
John brought over the popcorn in the only clean bowl he could find, and placed it on the table in front of Sherlock. Arthur stirred and opened a sleepy eye. Upon seeing the popcorn, he jumped off Sherlock and onto the floor, where he sat cross legged, one hand shoveling popcorn into his mouth, the other holding onto Sherlock's much larger hand, which was dangling over the side of the sofa.
Sherlock gave John a look that clearly said, "You say one word and I'll murder you." John put his hands up, grinning. Then he turned on the telly. A man in a long coat was shown running toward a disappearing blue box. Arthur screamed in glee and clapped his hand together.
"This must be Doctor Who," John said as the theme song came on and the Doctor Who logo came into view.
"Excellent deduction, John," Sherlock stated.
"Shut up, Sherlock." John pushed Sherlock over on the sofa and sat down as futuristic, human-like beings with sharp teeth paraded across the screen. John cocked an eyebrow at the appearance of a blue cockroach-like alien.
"This is the weirdest show," he said.
"Bad, bad, bad," Arthur whispered as drumbeats accompanied an old man on screen. The boy climbed up into Sherlock's lap and watched with wide eyes as the camera shifted to the inside of something where a tall man with spiky brown hair and a woman were looking very concerned.
"We should really, really go," the man on screen mused before smiling widely and heading out a door to his right.
"So they're just going outside when they know they shouldn't be here?" Sherlock asked, clearly already annoyed with the show. John shrugged and Arthur put a finger to his lips and shushed the detective, who went quiet.
The man who had grabbed onto the side of the blue box was now apparently dead. Sherlock snorted and John looked toward Arthur to see the child's reaction. Arthur, however, was grinning hugely.
Suddenly the man gasped and grabbed onto the arm of the woman who had previously been trying to find signs of life. Sherlock and John both jumped and Arthur squealed.
"Jack!" the boy laughed and moved to go sit on Sherlock's knee so as to be closer to the screen.
Jack and the spiky haired man regarded each other. Jack called the brown haired man Doctor and John commented,
"So that's the Doctor then? Thought he'd be older." It was John's turn to be shushed by Arthur.
Sherlock murmured, "Gay." as Jack continued talking. Pointing at the screen to make his point as Jack gave the Doctor a very tight bear hug.
Sherlock and John managed to sit in partial silence for the rest of the episode. Arthur would occasionally say something inaudible, before hiding in Sherlock's coat when an alien came onscreen. Sherlock, surprisingly let Arthur crawl all over him, even to the point of cradling Arthur in his arms when the boy became scared of one of the sharp toothed humanoids.
As the episode neared its end, Sherlock, John and Arthur were all on the edge of the sofa. The Master yelled, "Bye, bye!" and the TARDIS took off, leaving the Doctor and his companions stranded.
"They're just going to leave it like that?" Sherlock said angrily as John got up to turn off the telly. Sherlock crossed his arms and sat back on the sofa. Arthur followed suit, crossing his arms and pouting much like the detective.
"I knew it wasn't a good idea," John said, sitting down next to Sherlock.
"What?" Sherlock spat, turning to John.
"Letting you watch Doctor Who." John smirked.
"It's just a show on the telly," Sherlock growled.
"Doctor! Doctor!" Arthur yelled, clapping his hands together and bouncing up and down on Sherlock's knee.
"So should I expect some experiments to find out if the Daleks are real or not?" John asked slyly, picking up the empty popcorn bowl.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and said moodily, "No."
Arthur yawned and put his arms around Sherlock, snuggling into the detective's thin shirt. Sherlock looked down at the boy and then over at John asking.
"What do I do with him?"
"Let him sleep, we're not going anywhere," John replied, coming to sit down in his chair. Sherlock bit his lip. Arthur sighed and settled down, grabbing a fistful of Sherlock's robe and holding it against his face. Sherlock put a hesitant hand up and stroked Arthur's hair.
John smiled to himself as Sherlock started to nod off. Sometimes Sherlock surprised John by actually seeming to have emotions, to be able to feel anything for another person. And this was most defiantly one of those times.
John grabbed the book next to him. He got about half a page into it, before his eyes started to close, and he fell into a deep sleep.
John was woken by Arthur who had crawled up onto his lap. The boy was staring at John intently. John sat up and looked over at Sherlock. Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, his back facing John.
"Potty," Arthur whispered into John's ear. John sighed and got up, heading for the bathroom with Arthur trailing behind him. As he waited outside the bathroom door, John remembered why he never wanted to be a parent.
Arthur was taking quite a long time.
"You done?" John asked. No answer. John turned around and to his surprise Arthur was nowhere to be seen.
John went into a panic. Looking in every room in the flat. His room, Sherlock's room, the kitchen. He was sweating by the time he got to the sitting room. Sherlock was still on the sofa, sleeping soundly.
John went over to wake Sherlock and get some help finding Arthur. He was about to prod Sherlock in the back, when he saw hair poking out from behind Sherlock's shoulder. John peered over the detective to see Arthur snuggled in between Sherlock and the sofa.
Breathing a sigh of relief, John sat back in his chair and shut his eyes. He'd never expected Arthur to like Sherlock so much, but then again Sherlock did seem to have some sort of strange personal gravity that either drew people in or repelled them.
There was a knock from downstairs and John went to answer it. Lestrade was at the door, looking cheery.
"Found that kid's parents, they're back at the Yard, I can take him off your hands now," Lestrade said, motioning to the waiting cab.
John blinked a few times and said, "Oh, right. I'll, uh, I'll just go get him then."
Walking up the stairs felt like an eternity. He didn't want Arthur to go. But he knew that he had to. Arthur's parents were probably worried out of their minds.
John tiptoed over to Sherlock and Arthur. Shaking Sherlock's shoulder he whispered,
"Sherlock." Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he blinked up at John.
"Sherlock, they found Arthur's parents. He has to go."
"What?" Sherlock said, sitting up. Arthur remained snoozing, curled up in a tiny ball against Sherlock's thigh.
"He's got to go. Lestrade found his parents," John said, gently picking up Arthur in an attempt not to wake him.
"I see," Sherlock said softly, getting up from the sofa and stretching. He looked quite sad.
"Don't tell me that Sherlock Holmes doesn't want it to go," John said, using the word that Sherlock had previously used to describe Arthur.
"Oh, don't be silly John," Sherlock said angrily. But he looked sadly at Arthur.
As John headed out the door, Arthur stirred and awoke. Looking back at Sherlock with tired eyes, he put his hands out and grasped the air again.
"Wait, John," Sherlock said, stepping over the table in front of him. He took Arthur from John and held the boy for a moment. Arthur snuggled against Sherlock and John could have sworn he saw the detective give a small smile.
"I'm charging you for this extra cab fare," Lestrade yelled from downstairs.
Sherlock reluctantly handed Arthur back to John. Arthur waved as John carried him downstairs and Sherlock gave a small wave back.
John didn't expect giving Arthur to Lestrade to be so hard.
"You be good, you hear?" John said, kneeling in front of Arthur, "Watch out for Daleks." Arthur nodded and John ruffled his unkempt hair. Arthur leaned forward and gave John a quick hug. John gave him a pat on the back and then he was gone.
John trudged slowly up the stairs and fell into his chair. Sherlock was lying on the sofa with his fingertips pressed together. Everything seemed normal, but as John looked over at the telly, he noticed a note which listed the times for Doctor Who in Sherlock's messy writing. John glanced over at Sherlock and then tapped his fingers four times on the seat arm. Sherlock smiled.