"I can't believe you have a nephew." Had been what John had puffed the afternoon at the Holmes Estate that he'd been accosted by a seven year old who demanded John read to him from his heavy leather book.
Sherlock had shrugged. "Far be it from me to care if Sherringford reproduces." John thought it was bothersome enough that Sherlock hadn't mentioned his eldest brother before they'd arrived for the mandatory garden party. Most likely Sherlock would spend the time gravitating around his aged 'mummy.' He was bad enough socializing on his own, he was down-right rotten at introducing John.
Just as Sherlock seemed incapable of waiting for him, or addressing the needs of the child, John felt his sleeve grabbed. "Please read to me. You're a doctor so you can say all the funny words. Mother and Father are busy with the party and won't read to me. Please? You're a stranger here, no one will care if you don't talk to them."
This boy was very articulate in presenting his argument, even if it was founded exclusively in the special kind of logic that isn't marred by adulthood.
"I'm Greyson Holmes. Please just read me one story; even the short one." The heavy leather book was prodded and dug into his hip by the pleading child. What the hell was with the wealthy and neglecting their children's need to spend time with them and enforce good role model lessons? Really!? But as simplistic as the logic was, John smiled at Greyson. He had no interest in sharing Sherlock's familial suffering today. "Alright, just one." He swore as the boy burst open a smile, revealing crooked little baby teeth with two missing.
His sleeve was dragged until he was instructed into a proper spot on a small knit blanket a few feet from the wandering adults. Groaning with his creaking knees he lowered himself, accepted the book and paid little concern to the child that had wriggled over him to see the illustrations clearing his throat he began;
"'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe-"
At the full conclusion of 'Jabberwocky' Greyson was beaming. "I like the way you read." He chirped. "You do voices. Like on telly but in a book. Will you read some more? Please? Jabberwocky is so short!"
John had to admit, another story was far better than this hum drum party. He flipped a few pages;
"'Just the place for a snark!' the Bellman cried,
As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide
By a finger entwined in his hair."
Oh and this child! Pressed right into John's hip to ogle the illustrations he must have already seen many times. And how he looked at John and asked if he'd ever seen a snark, and 'why not? You're a doctor. They're supposed to be smart.' He had an imperious little tone, so similar to Sherlock's and his brothers… but it was nice to see an unguarded Holmes' soul. A boy who has a chance, absorbed in nonsensical picture rhyming novels.
"How about I read you another, 'Alice in Wonderland' might take a while though, it's a whole book by itself." John offered.
"That's fine if it takes a long while. Mummy and Daddy's party is boring." Greyson wrinkled his nose.
"Boring indeed." Drawled a smooth baritone behind them as Sherlock threw himself belly first on John's other side. "Please John, do continue. I've already survived the Eight Agonising Fits of Snark hunting. I would rather like to get away from this party and head into wonderland." He sighed, but didn't hide the fact that he was pressed into John's other hip… to see the illustrations.