John peered at Sherlock over his macbook, quickly returning his eyes to the blog post he was typing. Sherlock didn't care to notice the small smile and shake of the head John gave to himself.
It was funny now, but when John saw this version of Sherlock for the first time, he was taken aback. No, there was no great reveal-Sherlock just spent his time at home like this. Not every day, and certainly not while there were any visitors, but often enough for John to find it normal after a few months of living together.
John chuckled, thinking back to that morning-not even a few days after he'd moved in-when he'd gone to the kitchen to put on a pot of water. He found Sherlock sitting at the table, with several small figurines and vehicles strewn about it, wearing a too-small pajama shirt covered in cartoon dinosaurs, smashing toy cars together and imitating a devastating and particularly loud crash. Funnily enough, John was so used to Sherlock's unpredictably odd behavior that, after pausing and narrowing his eyes for a split second, he resumed the ritual of his morning cuppa without even questioning what the detective was up to. Sherlock, as usual, didn't acknowledge John's entrance when the doctor shuffled toward the oven.
As John reached for the loose tea and the bags to fit it into, he listened to Sherlock imitate medics resuscitating. By the time he'd plopped his Earl Gray into the glass Sherlock was delivering harrowing eyewitness testimonies. John was still facing the cabinets, resting his hands on the counter and enjoying the unfolding story, when a new character dramatically entered the scene. He proclaimed himself to be a world-class detective and that gasp! this was no ordinary car crash, but a government conspiracy.
John had cocked his head to the side with a smile as Sherlock's articulate child's play, which mimicked exactly the case they were currently working on, was cut off by the whistle of the teapot. For seconds after, he only heard the steady stream of hot water pouring into his cup and assumed that a startled Sherlock had finally noticed John's presence in the room.
John turned around to tease his friend, who had gone rigid, about his silly goings on, but was interrupted by the sight of cobalt blue underpants with the heroic face of Disney's Aladdin plastered about it. The underwear and the dinosaur shirt completed Sherlock's outfit; the detective's slender legs were bare up to his bottom. Brows furrowed, John broke the silence with the determination to get at least one explanation for the dress and manner that seemed too quirky even for Sherlock
"Um, may I ask what you're doing?"
Sherlock didn't answer, so still in his seat not even a hair moved.
For a moment, John felt twinges of secondhand embarrassment from catching Sherlock in such an awkward position. John quickly regretted his decision to call Sherlock out, passive and avoidant Englishman that he was, as it could've resulted in an actual conversation about odd feelings. His sheepishness winning over curiosity, John hoped apologizing would clear the air.
"Nevermind, I'm-"
"Shush," the detective interrupted with a wave of his hand, sounding more annoyed than humiliated.
John rolled his eyes.
"Stop making noise," Sherlock said tersely, as if he had heard the doctor's eyes arch in their sockets. "He's deducing."
John almost asked who?, until he realized that Sherlock wasn't embarrassed-the detective was still at play! Sherlock was maintaining statuesque silence so that his world-class He-Man figurine detective could crack the code to a government plot. With a sigh and another eye roll, John made moves toward his chair in the salon, Sherlock's He-Man muttering streams of deductions about the horrific scene on the table.
And that was that.
John abandoned the memory and focused on the task at hand as Sherlock curled on the sofa with eyes fixated on the TV, spill-proof sippy cup lying lazily at his feet. Over the three months of living with Sherlock, John'd eventually learned to accept the other man's quirks without question. This was simply who Sherlock was; sometimes the detective would lay for hours deep in thought without sleeping, sometimes he would bring body parts home and stow them in the fridge.
And sometimes Sherlock would wear nothing but firetruck undies and sing along to Mulan, as he was doing at that moment in front of the TV. Across the room, John dramatized the tale of their latest case for Sherlock's blog. He liked to write cases as they were unfolding otherwise, frankly, he wouldn't be able to keep up with the developments. For entertainment he occassionally glanced over at the detective. Although Sherlock's stoic face remained stony, his eyes were glinting with contentment and his solemn mouth would sometimes giggle at scenes he's viewed hundreds of times. Seeing Sherlock behave like a kid became less strange and more endearing over time. While John was guaranteed a constant barrage of juvenile tests from the mischievous little Sherlock, they weren't nearly as patronizing as the ones doled out by big Sherlock.
And of course, the idea of the stony and secretive Sherlock dressing like a child and playing with toys was quite funny.
Although, the kid was messy. When John's mind blocked the flow of good writing from reaching his fingertips he saved his progress and snapped the macbook shut, looking up to see toys about the living room floor. John rose from his seat with a grunt of frustration as he knew full well that Sherlock wouldn't clean that damn mess up as a kid or as an adult.
John stepped in front of Sherlock, blocking his view of the TV. "I hope you plan on putting these toys away."
Sherlock shuffled his body across the sofa so that he could see around the doctor, his gleeful eyes beginning to frown. John again blocked his view.
Sherlock sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes to settle on John's face. "What?" he asked, as if John hadn't already made himself clear.
"Your stuff is all over the place, and I'm not picking it up this time."
Sherlock didn't take his eyes off John as he wordlessly reached for his sippy cup and threw it on the floor to join the rest of his mess. He smirked tauntingly when the cup clattered to the floor.
"No. I'm having fun."
The act was so small but it made John furious. Little or big, there was no convincing the brat to do anything he didn't want to do, even if it was the decent thing. The doctor wished for a house he didn't have to wade through. Was it too much to ask? He wanted to return a blow; however, the doctor noticed over time that kid Sherlock enjoyed angering John-got a kick out of it-so yelling wouldn't do. Instead, John made a bid for the detective's ego. He lowered himself so that he was face to face with the man on the couch.
"Little Sherlock," he said, scolding his friend in the condescending voice of a warning kindergarten teacher, "do you not understand what Mr. Watson is saying?" Sherlock perked up like a puppy ready to play. Sensing that his ploy was having an averse effect, John decided to lay the condescension on thick with a babying voice: "Huh, Sweetie? Do you think Dr. Watson wikes stepping on wegos on his way to the bafwoom in da middwe of da night?" By the time John finished mocking Sherlock, the doctor was so pleased with himself that his stern gaze had become laughing and a smile played on his lips.
The two stared at each other for moments, Sherlock peering at John's triumphant face, until the detective lept at John and wrapped his arms around the doctor's neck, pulling them both back to the couch in a firm grip.
"Sherlo-gah!" to no avail, John pushed at the detective softly at first, then violently when he realized Sherlock was using as much strength as possible to hold on firm to his torso. Sherlock curled his legs around John's back and mischievous giggles met John's frustrated grunts. Their bodies were too tightly pulled together for John to throw Sherlock off, and after trying fruitlessly again and again to fling Sherlock away by his slender waist, John resorted to bucking the younger man off of his body.
Sherlock was still embracing John when the doctor gave up in exhaustion. Too tired to support himself, John slumped into the sofa, sandwiching Sherlock-who was relentlessly holding on despite shaking with laughter against John's body-between himself and the cushions, the detective's head curled into the crook of John's neck.
When Sherlock's giggle fit died down, the two lay huffing from their row. Between pants, John growled, "Sherlock. Get. Off."
"No."
John groaned. He was thoroughly ticked off, but Sherlock replied like a toddler playing a game. His hold on John was tight even as he lay crushed by the doctor.
"Act your damn age," John spat, attempting to lift his front from the couch. Sherlock difiantly squeezed tighter and turned his expressionless face toward John.
"I am."
"Sherlock, come on!" John pleaded, exasperated.
"I am acting my age, Dr. Watson," Sherlock replied softly. A scoff escaped John's mouth; despite looking as stony-faced as ever, the detective sounded and behaved properly like a brat attempting to manipulate an adult into getting what he wants.
A light bulb lit up John's mind.
"How about this, buddy," John began, wide-eyed and addressing Sherlock like a kid. "I'll help you clean, and then we can get ice cream." John said 'ice cream' like it was treasure.
Thinking, Sherlock looked away then back at John. "I don't want ice cream." John's face fell for a split second before he decided to try again.
"Okay then, we can get a new toy!" John's smile was strained and his eyes showed annoyance.
"No," Sherlock replied, bored.
John broke character, "Christ, Sherlock, what do you want?" He sounded like a babysitter, one who didn't like children and was willing to do whatever to get them to straighten the hell up-and Sherlock was the spoiled child who knew how to get what he wanted.
"I want..." Sherlock trailed off, going through the possibilities before directing his attention back to John's face. "I want to sleep in Dr. Watson's bed tonight." Sherlock released the doctor and lay under him, examining his reaction.
John cocked his head, squinting his eyes and puckering his mouth at the odd request. At this point, he'd forgotten what they were even going on about.
Oh yeah, the mess.
He didn't even know what to make of it. Kid Sherlock wanted John to, what, sing him to sleep? Or did he want to keep John up with his antics? Or worse yet, cuddle? Sounds nice.
Wait, what?! John shook the thought out of his head without even exploring it. Better to ignore that one.
Is this even worth it? was John's next thought. John looked at the toys about the floor, and momentarily considered it could be. But then he remembered the intrusive thought he'd had before, about actually enjoying cuddling with Sherlock, and decided it would be better to avoid discovering why he'd think that.
"Nah," John finally answered, pushing himself from the sofa and moving to gather Sherlock's toys into a pile. "No, no, no," he said under his breath, stuffing the remnants of that thought into his subconscious. He snuck a peek at Sherlock who looked bored as ever, though his eyes were trained on the very Mulan that was entertaining the detective just moments before. John's decluttering became a bit more erratic when he considered that Sherlock's behavior was all a big ploy to get the doctor to do exactly what he was doing now-cleaning.
"Could you give me that?" Sherlock said, in his big Sherlock voice, pointing lazily at the sippy cup John had just retrieved. When John, avoiding another tantrum, handed him his juice, he'd noticed that Sherlock broke a frown to take a swig of it, then sighed afterward like a man who took his first swig from a pint after a long day at work.
Hmm, so maybe he didn't win after all. John felt boastful, and then flattered that Sherlock wanted to sleep in his bed, and then embarrassed at yet another intrusive thought which he promptly stowed away with the last one.
"I'm hungry," little Sherlock said as if John should take care of it. John was too high off his win to feel patronized by the detective's order. He hummed his way to the kitchen to fix dinner and chased away thoughts of Sherlock squeezing his nearly naked body to John's torso. No, that brat's smooth skin and slender frame had nothing at all too do with John's good mood.