A/N: The first part is pure smut...with plot, but let's not lie to each other. If you'd rather not read the smut, feel free to scroll down past the dividing bar (like chapter 1) to Kyle's part that is completely safe for work.

This was a previously unplanned chapter but was inspired by requests for: a closer look at John and Sherlock's love life and Sherlock/Kyle one-on-one time. I think those were it for this one.

The painting deductions were drawn from here: /art-history/famous-paintings/ since I know nothing in-depth about art myself. Might help you to have this up to at least see what picture they're looking at at the time.

I've never really addressed it, but they're not currently living in 221B Baker Street (yes, I have plans for this, but not yet). Also, John never went to war and was never shot, so his shoulder scar does not exist.


Kyle: 6
Sherlock: 25
John: 29

Two weeks later brings us to the 6th of January: a date that no one ever gave much attention to before John.

"So what do you want to do for your birthday this year?" He asked on the Friday night before it.

"Nothing," I reply blandly, not even looking up from my book that I'm reading on the couch.

"Sherlock," he chides lightly, "It's your 25th birthday; we should do something special for it."

"I don't see how any one birthday is more significant than another. It's just another day, John."

"How about celebrating it special because it's the first one that you're my fiancé for?" He smirks.

Cheeky bastard; he knows I'm still beside myself that he said yes and my stomach still flutters every time it's mentioned.

I roll my eyes, "What did you have in mind?" I admit defeat.

He smiles mischievously and moves to sit close to me, removing the book from my hands and setting it aside. He leans in close to my ear, "I want to take you to The National Gallery," he moves down to whisper on a particularly sensitive spot on my neck, his lips ghosting against the skin, "So you can practice those deduction skills you enjoy so much."

I bite my lip as he finally kisses my neck, "You hate my deductions," I fight half-heartedly, head tilting to the side to grant him further access.

He hums, "No, I hate when you deduce me; there's a difference," he resumes kissing my neck.

I pant, "I don't understand the difference."

His mouth moves to the other side of my neck, his left hand on my chest, before he responds, "It's infuriating when it's me. But when it's other people or things?" We both moan as his hand slowly drifts down my stomach, "It's so fucking sexy."

I moan much louder than intended at the words as his hand reaches my erection, cupping it through the fabric, "Shhh," he laughs, "would hate for Kyle to wake up right now," he warns and I shake my head while biting my lip.

He begins to move his hand over my clothed erection as he continues whispering against my neck, "Watching your brain work through a puzzle and discovering every little detail that most people miss? God, Sherlock, what you do to me," he moans.

The friction isn't nearly enough, though the words are more than adequate. I lift his face to mine so I can finally kiss him firmly, "Bedroom," I growl.

"Kitchen is closer," he says with a glint in his eyes.

Even after nearly 3 years we keep our bedroom activities exactly there, too nervous about Kyle walking in on us elsewhere. But he went to bed nearly two hours ago and it's been months since he woke up in the middle of the night, I reason with myself. I nod my ascent and he gladly pulls me towards the kitchen; at least this way we're not in immediate view should Kyle wake up.

John pushes me down in to one of the chairs and makes me watch as he slowly removes his jumper and unbuttons his shirt beneath, letting it hang open. He undoes his trousers next to relieve the pressure on his cock but does not remove them.

He smiles at me seductively as he finally moves within touching range, and I reverently run my hands over the expanse of his torso as he undoes the buttons on my shirt while kissing me. Once he has them open, he pushes the garment off of my shoulders so it drops to the floor as he drops to his knees and leans forward to kiss a trail down my chest and to the top of my trousers. He undoes them and I instinctively lift my hips so he can drag both trousers and pants off of me.

He eagerly takes my cock in his mouth and I have to bite my hand as my head tips back so as not to make a sound. He hums in appreciation and I look down at him to find him staring up at me.

"Fuck," I whisper brokenly.

He finally lifts off, creating a tight suction on the way up, "That rather was the idea," he smirks before stepping out of his bottoms and shrugging out of his shirt before moving to the sink directly across from my seat.

We keep lotion next to the soap there and I moan lowly as he dispenses some on to his fingers and spreads it around.

"I don't want you to move, Sherlock. Not to come to me, not to touch yourself," he says sternly and I nod without realizing; anything for that lotion-slick hand to continue its journey.

But it doesn't come towards me as I thought it would. Instead, John leans forward on the sink while presenting his deliciously round, perky ass towards me and lowers his left hand to his hole and begins to prepare himself.

I make a desperate sound as my hips jerk upwards at the sight, "John, please," I quietly beg as my hands itch to grab him.

"Oh, Sherlock," he moans, "Don't even think of moving," he reminds and I whimper as I literally sit on my hands.

After a few torturous minutes he straightens up and I sigh expectantly. He pumps more lotion in to his hand and uses it to slick up my cock. It takes all of my self-control not to be too loud or come immediately from the touch.

John straddles my lap facing me, hands on my shoulders as I hold my cock in place with one hand, my other on his hip.

It's not as comfortable a position as when we're lying down, but the look and feel of him sinking down on to me is still phenomenal.

He kisses me deeply as his body adjusts; we both prefer me on the bottom, but the switch is just as good and keeps things interesting.

He begins to move and I place both hands on his hips to assist him. After a few minutes I can tell that his thigh muscles are growing tired, so I pull him tightly to me as I stand to lay his back on the kitchen table. But the table, while sturdy, is not solid enough not to scrape loudly against the floor as I pound in to him.

I collapse on to him in a fit of giggles and feel him shaking with mirth beneath me. When we've both quieted down he whispers, "Counter."

I step back so that I slip from his body, groaning at the loss as I help him stand. He moves to a counter and braces his hands on it with his feet spread wide. I'm entranced by the beautiful lines of his body and completely forget that I'm supposed to be claiming it.

"You just going to stare, or are you going to come fuck me?" He goads with a smirk.

I growl as I use my entire body to box him in against the counter and relish in the feeling of him pushing his body back in to mine.

I reenter him slowly and wait for a signal that he's ready. As soon as I feel him wiggle against me, I place my left hand on his hip and my right comes across his chest where my hand rests in front of his left shoulder. I suck a mark in to the side of his neck as I fuck him in earnest. He comes with his hand around his cock and the tightening of his muscles pulls me over the edge.

We collapse on to the cold floor to catch our breaths. I pull him to my chest and place a tender kiss to his temple.

"You are amazing and I love you," I pant.

He chuckles and leans to place a kiss to my chest, "I love you, too, but this floor is too damn cold and we need to clean this up."

I groan at the thought as my head flops back to hit the counter. We finally do as he says we must and are asleep within a half hour.

On Sunday, we leave Kyle with Mrs. Hudson and head to The National Gallery. I don't know much about art since I never studied it, but John has always had an appreciation for it.

John leads me to the first painting of his choice, "Okay, let's hear it," he says to me expectantly.

"This one is overly easy: The Last Supper by da Vinci depicts, of course, Jesus and his 12 Apostles; he announced that one of them would betray him. There was controversy about Illuminati conspiracy thanks to Dan Brown's The da Vinci Code," I finish and can't help but tag on pompously, "Obvious."

He smiles at me and I notice a few people around us giving us odd glances, though I'm not sure if it's the fact that we're daring to talk or that they can tell we're a couple. I shrug it off as inconsequential as John leads me to the next one.

"What about this one then?" He asks quieter this time.

"Clearly Las Meninas by Diego Valazquez according to the placard," I whisper.

John hums as he steps closely in front of me, nearly pressed against me. My arms automatically come up to grasp his biceps to still him.

"What are you doing?" I hiss at him as I glance around to find that no one is paying us any mind; must have been the vocal levels after all.

"We can be quieter this way; you'll be able to speak directly in to my ear as you deduce the paintings," he says, but I'm sensing a trap.

"Okay," I agree warily.

"So go ahead, what about this one?" He urges.

"It means The Maids of Honor and judging by the outfits and décor, it's set in Baroque Spain, most likely Madrid. It's very…complex. It has created a discord among critics and scholars as they debate the uncertainties portrayed within it," I finish quietly, my confusion ringing through.

"Very good, I thought that one might stump you," he says before leading me on. I snort in derision and we stop at the next one. He immediately places himself directly in front of me again, resting his body fully against me this time.

"A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat, I'd know this painting anywhere; it's one of my favorites."

"Really?" He asks innocently as he places his hands behind his back – really there should have been no adequate room to achieve this – his left hand coming to rest at my zipper.

I hiss in shock, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Listening to you admire art. Don't draw attention; your bloody Belstaff is more than adequate to hide my actions."

I moan very quietly in distress, aggravated at my body for responding favorably to his words whilst my mind rebels.

"So this one's your favorite," he states calmly, "Tell me about it," his hand begins to slowly move over my growing clothed erection.

"Seurat used a technique known as pointillism to create this work. It," I hiss involuntarily as his hand grows firmer, "it's made up almost entirely of contrasting color dots that manifest in to a single hue through the viewers' eyes," his pressure increases again but I push through, trying not to draw attention to us, "He spent more than two years returning to this park to get it right," I finish speaking.

John nods and steps away, leading on. I pull my coat protectively around me to cover my arousal as I follow.

"This one next; one of my favorites," Johns says as he stops. I settle myself away from him, hoping to discourage his wandering hand, but he shakes his head and positions himself in the same spot.

"Starry Night over the Rhone by van Gogh," I start to speak as his hand starts to move again in his infuriatingly teasing fashion, "It depicts Arles from the bank of the Rhone River. It," I swallow thickly and tilt my head forward so my forehead is touching his hair and practically breathe a plea, "John, please."

"Keep deducing or I stop," he warns and then does still his hand, "Unless that's what you want."

I let out a frustrated growl before standing straight again and continuing, "It was a precursor to his Starry Night series," his hand moves again, "except this one has human figures in it. This painting has always reminded me of the Schubert Ave Maria portion of Disney's Fantasia; the lighted torches reflecting in the water as the monks walk single-file to the cathedral."

"That's beautiful imagery," he whispers.

"Yes," is all I can say.

Next he leads us to a deserted section. In the back corner furthest from the doorway, he stops.

"Dahli's The Persistence of Memory," I state.

John wastes no time getting in to position. This time, however, he loops his right arm under my coat to wrap around my waist. His left hand deftly undoes my button and fly, but he doesn't pull my cock out, simply reaches inside to tug it.

"Remember," he hisses, eyes on the painting, "don't draw attention."

His indecent actions are completely covered by both my coat and the angle at which we're standing. I'm used to having to be plenty quiet with a child at home, but I've never had to school my features before. I begin with resolve.

"There are so many interpretations of this piece, and since Dali never explained it, any and all of them could be right," I swallow a moan; I'm so bloody close now, "I've always preferred to think of it as all of these moment that we have in our lives. They shift, they change, they may even mean something completely different down the road, but they're always there," almost there, "always reminding us of who we are and what's important," I manage to finish just as I finally come, quietly moaning John's name with my face pressed to the side of his head.

As I attempt to regain my breath he leans up and places a kiss on the bottom of my jaw.

"You're a menace," I scold him with no real malice.

"I told you your deductions were sexy," he smiles cheekily.

"I'm going to take you home now and make you pay for this."

"Oh, I was counting on it."


Once Kyle heard how much (appropriate, of course) fun we had, he insisted that me and him take a one-on-one trip to London's Science Museum.

John and I made the decision to let him skip school the Friday following my birthday for the special occasion. He has been suffering some bullying in regards to his behavior and our home life recently – while the world is trying to change and accommodate "non-traditional" families such as ours, not everyone is on board at the moment. I've also been suffering from self-imposed boredom in regards to my job of choice, so it's a mutually beneficial plan.

On Friday morning I let Kyle sleep in a bit later than normal, but around 9 I enter his room to wake him.

"Kyle, it's time to get up," I call as I move towards him.

The lump on the bed moves and then moans in a sad way. I stop in my tracks from surprise and then hear, "Noooo!" in a very nasally, pathetic voice.

"Oh no," I mutter and finish striding towards him, reaching to his forehead and recoiling at the heat. I turn right back around to grab the thermometer and some children's medicine from the cabinet in the bathroom.

When I return, I sit on the bed next to him and continuously brush the fringe of his dark blonde hair off of his forehead while the thermometer is in his mouth.

I remove it when it beeps and sigh when I see the temperature: 38.0 degrees Celsius; elevated but certainly not dangerous at the moment.

He curls in to my body heat because he thinks he's cold and makes the most heart-wrenching sounds of discontent from the back of his throat.

"Come on, sweetheart, let's get you to the couch," I decide that it will be easiest to keep an eye on him from there.

"But the Science Museum," he protests weakly past his obviously sore throat, finally blinking his eyes open at me.

I shake my head with an affectionate smile, "Not today. We'll do it when you're better," I tell him.

He clears his throat painfully, "Promise?"

"Yes, I promise," I say honestly, "Now let's get you to the couch," I repeat.

I help him stand, trying to ignore his shivering. I pull his favorite thick blanket from the bed and wrap it around him securely before leading him by the shoulders to the living area.

When he lays down he rocks from side-to-side, eyes closed in pain, and sobs without any tears.

My heart clenches in a way it's never known before to see him in such distress. I storm in to the kitchen resolutely to fill a glass with cold water before walking back to him, taking one children's tablet from the bottle, and sitting next to him on the couch.

"Sit up for me," I urge gently as I move to assist him.

He slowly does so and takes the medicine with difficulty. Once I've placed the cup on the table to my left, he burrows in to my side.

"Papa," he cries sadly once more.

I hold him and place my lips to his temple to hold back my own wave of emotions at the call, feeling utterly helpless.

"I've got you," I whisper and he goes limp in my arms. I lower him to a lying position when his fevered core temperature becomes too much for me. I place him in a position that I hope will be comfortable and move to find my phone.

Change of plans, Kyle is running a fever.

Jesus! How high? Do I need to come home?

No, just 38.0 degrees. No need to worry yet, right?

No. Have you given him anything?

One tab of the children's medicine. I moved him to the couch for easier access.

Sounds like you're doing fine so far. Let me know if you need me to come home.

John, I…I haven't ever taken care of another sick person before.

Just keep him comfortable and let him know you're there. He likely just needs to sweat it out.

So I just wait? That sounds like torture.

Keep an eye on his temperature. If it rises to 40 degrees you should take him in.

To hospital?

No, just our doctor first if they can fit him in. Let me know if it gets to that point and I'll give you the details.

I'll leave my phone on even during class.

Thank you, that makes me feel a bit better.

You'll be fine, just listen to him.

Okay.

I scoot one of the arm chairs closer to his head on the couch and grab my book to read, remembering John's advice of listening to him. But listening to him is what makes it so difficult to simply sit and do nothing as he occasionally moans and groans as he moves but stays asleep. It's not until around noon that he wakes with more pronounced moans.

I close the small distance between us to take his temperature: 38.4 degrees now, but I remind myself that the medicine is still in his system. I hand him the glass of water and he drinks gratefully.

"Are you hungry?" I ask.

He clears his throat painfully and shakes his head while saying, "No."

"Is there anything I can get you? Do for you?" I fuss.

"Nemo?" He asks as he looks at me with pain-filled eyes.

"You want to watch it?" I clarify.

"Please?"

I nod and move to put the movie in. He's lying on his left side now so he can easily see the TV. When I sit back down in the chair he reaches his left hand up to grasp at me; I willingly take his hand in mine, reassuring him that I'm here. After he falls asleep a few minutes later, his hand falls from mine and I let it.

The next few hours are much the same: he makes heartbreaking noises of discontent and will reach out for me in a blind, fevered haze.

The next time he wakes, the movie is done and the medicine is out of his system.

He thrashes uncomfortably from side-to-side and moans, "Everything hurts. Why does everything hurt?"

"You have a fever," I explain.

"I don't want it," he pleads.

"That's not how it works."

"I don't want this," he reiterates.

"I know," I agree quietly and reach for the thermometer, "Let's see where your fever stands."

When it beeps, I look down to see 39.9 and frown in concern.

I pull out my phone.

39.9 off of medicine.

Dr. Murray 020 7946 0022. Are you okay taking him yourself?

Yes, I'll be fine.

Keep me as updated as you can.

I call the office and they say that they can fit us in in one hour. I gratefully accept the slot and run around getting everything ready as quickly as possible. I grab some clothes for Kyle – sweatpants, a loose t-shirt, and a zip-up sweater – then struggle to get him in to them.

"Okay, time to go to the doctor," I tell him once I've got everything.

"Can I have more medicine?" He asks tiredly.

"No, they'll need to see how you're doing without medicine."

"But the medicine makes me feel better," his eyes tear up.

"I know, but I can't," I hold strong to my resolve because I know it's best, but the part of me that hates to tell him no and see him in pain demands I give him the damn pill.

"It hurts less with the medicine," he tries to explain, like I don't already know.

"As it should. You'll get more after the doctor, I promise."

He sniffs sadly and then coughs. I place the bag on my right shoulder and then pick him up and place him on my left hip before going down to the street to grab a cab.

He's a little too big for it to be comfortable to carry him like this anymore, but it'll make the trip much easier. The entire cab ride he lays curled in my lap as I run my right hand through his overly warm hair.

They get us in with an assistant fairly quickly for the pre-exam. Kyle is sat on the table alone while I occupy a chair close by. As she asks him questions he looks to me for guidance, leading me to answer most questions for him.

During the pre-exam he gets warm and removes his sweater, but within 10 minutes of the assistant leaving the room he gets cold again and puts it back on. A few minutes after that his shivering increases and I can't stand it; I rise from the chair and pull him in to my arms, rubbing my hands up and down his back to generate a sense of warmth for him even though his body is burning up.

I look at the clock when my legs begin to ache to see that we've been waiting alone in this room for a half hour. I kiss Kyle's forehead lightly and step away to sit in the chair again.

Half an hour? How long am I supposed to wait before I leave this room and lodge a complaint?

Sherlock Holmes, you listen to me: do not leave that room. Do not yell at anyone. Just keep waiting and be patient.

Patient? They're ignoring our son!

[slightly delayed] There's no way you'll let them ignore our son.

But they get busy, give them time.

"Papa?" Kyle asks tiredly, and when I look up I notice that he's swaying slightly, "Can I go back to sleep now?"

I stand up and gather him in my arms before bringing him back to my chair and allowing him to curl up in my lap, my arms wrapped around him protectively.

"I've got you, go to sleep, sweetheart," I whisper and feel him settle quickly.

Another half an hour later, Dr. Murray finally enters the room.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," he says and then looks at Kyle still asleep in my arms, "I see he fell asleep during the wait."

"Well he's been without medicine for hours now and the fever is taking its toll," I fume at him quietly, a look that could kill in my eyes.

"I understand your frustration," he tries to appease me gently, "If you could wake him up I would be happy to see what I can do to get him feeling better."

After a very efficient exam we leave the office with a diagnosis of flu and a prescription at a local pharmacy.

We pick up the medication and find John at home by the time we return.

"Daddy," Kyle smiles weakly and reaches out to him. John takes him from my arms and back to the couch before settling him.

"How are you feeling, love?"

"I hurt all over," he moans, burrowing in to his blankets.

"The medicine will help with that," John says while looking at me as I walk towards him with the first dose, "I'm sorry I couldn't leave work sooner," he tells Kyle.

Kyle swallows the dose and settles down sleepily again, "That's okay, Papa took care of me. Papa always takes care of me."

"Yes he does, doesn't he?" John asks as he smiles affectionately at me.

"Go to sleep now, sweetheart, the adventure's over," I tell Kyle gently instead of acknowledging either of their words.

"Papa?" He blindly reaches his hand out to me with his eyes closed, like so many times today.

I grab his hand, "I'll be right here," I assure him.

He sighs contently before falling asleep once more.


A/N: First of all, Kyle's one-on-one time really was going to be a visit to the Science Museum, and then I woke up yesterday with a wicked fever and unable to go to work, and then this happened. I'm not going to tell you how old I am, but I'm old enough that the fact that my Grandma had to drag me to the clinic against my will because my fever was so high is super embarrassing.

Second of all, I'm sorry that Kyle is Sherlock's kryptonite. Just kidding, I'm not really.

Thirdly, I can't promise how quickly each new chapter will appear, but it's my honest hope not to make you wait too long for each. However, I am hand-writing each and then fleshing out/editing as I type them up, so that unfortunately takes a little more time.

Lastly, I'd love to hear what you thought of these snippets, good or bad. And don't forget to leave me any ideas that might still fit in to the chronological timeline if you have them!