Title: Never Too Late
Characters: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme
Rating: K
Warnings/Spoilers: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse
Summary: Continuation of A Messy Business. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four weeks. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.
A/N: This prompt was the original prompt, and as you can see I didn't get to most of it. Hence, the continuation. Title comes from the quote "It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936
"Well, I am sleepy," he finally said, in a truly brilliant flash of inspiration. "I usually take a nap about this time in my chair at least. Would you mind that?"
John raised a tiny skeptical eyebrow. "Grownup people don' need naps," he stated disdainfully.
"Did Sherlock tell you that?"
"Yes."
Honestly, he wanted to throttle Sherlock sometimes. "Well, sometimes they do."
"Okay," John said doubtfully.
"You are welcome to sit over there by the window while I sleep," Mycroft added, indicating the window seat, under which was a heating vent running at full blast.
John sneezed again, and scrambled out of his chair with a truly alarming amount of energy. He bounced to the window and pressed his nose against the glass, knees on the seat. "Buses!"
"Obviously," Mycroft muttered, popping two paracetamol dry and then scrawling a signature across the tablet at his elbow.
John muttered something stroppy, eyelids fluttering heavily. Not ten seconds passed before he was snuggling into the afghan Anthea had somehow mysteriously conjured into existence.
In a matter of seconds, the child was asleep, breathing heavily – a little too heavily; he was obviously coming down with a cold. Mucus was not something Mycroft was interested in dealing with.
Should John be sick all over his upholstery, Sherlock would regret the day he was ever born.
Mycroft had intended to make Sherlock squirm, more for John's sake than because he thought it might make Sherlock be more careful. He had a chastising speech prepared and ready for when his baby brother made his appearance, and was just finishing up a final parental injunction when the door to his office was flung open with enough force that the knob bounced off the protective rubber on the wall (had it not been there, a hole would have been punched in the wallpaper).
He took one look at the sheer unbridled panic in Sherlock's eyes before mentally shredding his speech.
The last time he'd seen his brother so distraught was when at six years old Sherlock had discovered a nest of dead baby birds in a tree on their estate. He'd never expected to see such a horrified panic control his brother ever again – but here the man was, about ten seconds from hyperventilation.
"Mycroft," Sherlock gasped, rubbing a shaking hand across his mouth as he spied the small bundle curled up on the window-seat. "I – Mycroft – " The words ended in a sort of strangled croak, and Mycroft nearly gaped as his brother slid down the wall to the floor, forehead resting on his knees. He was trembling all over, and not from being rain-soaked.
This was Very Bad.
"Sherlock," he said calmly. "I want you to take a deep breath and hold it. Very good. Let it out. And again."
His brother shuddered and then staggered to his feet, practically stumbling over them to the window.
"You made a mistake, Sherlock, but an understandable one. There was no permanent harm done."
He watched as a shaking hand ghosted gently over John's still-damp hair. "Do you have any idea how many predators statistically walk that section of the city even in daylight, Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice was shaking worse than his hands, busy as they were tucking the blanket more securely round the sleeping child.
"I could guess, Sherlock," he answered gently. "But nothing happened."
His brother whirled on him, eyes haunted. "That is not the point!"
"No, it is not," he agreed. "But for now, Sherlock, that little boy needs you to simply take care of him. He does not know the danger he was in, and there is no reason he should. Put your self-recrimination away, at least for now."
John stirred as his little face scrunched up to sneeze, snuffling into the blanket. Blue eyes flickered open as Sherlock knelt beside him, and a sudden smile lit up the room.
"S'eepy, Sherlock," he mumbled, rubbing a small fist against the one eye that wasn't hidden in the blanket.
A thin smile shattered the tension in the detective's face. "I know," he said softly. "I'm going to take you home now."
"'Kay." John sneezed again, and Mycroft winced as the little one rubbed his nose with the afghan. John sat up, blanket pooling around him, and looked at his makeshift tissue. Frowning, he scrunched his face up. "Ew."
Sherlock managed a weak laugh, more at Mycroft's horrified expression than anything else, and scooped his small flatmate up into his arms, hugging him close without another thought. He was not going to leave without saying something, however, for he was quite literally unsure if he could live with the guilt of not at least asking for the forgiveness he already knew he'd been given.
"John, I am…I am so sorry I…forgot about you," he murmured into the child's curls. "It was inexcusable and…and I have no idea what I can do to properly apologise."
John blinked sleepily up at him for a moment, before obviously deciding whatever Sherlock's offenses, they were not enough to negate the childlike trust Sherlock knew he'd never deserve. John sniffled and curled one hand into his coat, snuggling against his shoulder and closing his eyes again.
"'S aww fine," the child mumbled into his shoulder, and Sherlock had never in his life wanted to weep so badly.