Title: Interlude (57-64/?)
Universe: A Messy Business/Never Too Late
Rating: G
Word Count (this bit): 8x221
Warnings: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff
General Summary: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.
This Part Summary: Mycroft Holmes divulges Plot, and there is some much-deserved cuddling.
A/N: Promised holiday arc. This is AU from A Messy Business, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October and I have no intention of letting my kidfic turn into another Insontis epic (which I am also in the process of updating, for those of you who are also Trek fans). Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.
A/N2: See all the illustrations for this 'verse via this plug post in my journal, and do take the time to stop by and tell the artists how awesome they are, please.
As the phone rang through, Lestrade watched from outside the hospital room as Sherlock finally had the good sense (helped along the way by a pointed glare and a few choice words from Donovan) to wrap his tiny flatmate into a close embrace (Dimmock called it a snuggle when he saw Sally's photo, and Sherlock sent his computer a virus when that little titbit went viral) and try to calm the half-hysterical little boy.
He'd just seen the garish stuffed parrot make an appearance, swiftly aborted as Sherlock's wrapped ribs protested the movement, when Mycroft Holmes finally deigned to answer the phone.
"I trust this is nothing short of an emergency, Detective Inspector Lestrade?"
He really did not get paid enough to put up with that smarmy, self-important tone of voice. "Is your brother getting hit by a bicycle and John Watson starting to regain his adult memories enough of an emergency for you?" he asked curtly.
Silence for a few moments. "I take it that Sherlock is relatively unharmed, else your tone would not be so modulated."
"I couldn't care less what you trust, Mr. Holmes. But yes, he's going to be a holy terror for the next few weeks while he's down with cracked ribs and a mild concussion, nothing more serious if his nurse is to be believed."
"And Dr. Watson?"
"Five-year-old John Watson took one look at the equipment in your brother's hospital room and told him his blood pressure was too low, for Sherlock," he replied. "This was after he told Sergeant Donovan that St. Bart's Hospital was a 'bad place' and about fifteen minutes before he told Sherlock that he thought your brother was dead again."
"...This is an unexpected development, even with his delayed return to age," came the thoughtful reply. "Has he shown any other signs of adult memories asserting themselves in this regression?"
"Not unless you count dreams, nightmares mostly, about Afghanistan."
"Dreams do not count, at least in our own research in this matter, Detective Inspector. This is the first time a waking memory has been recalled by the child, then?"
"I believe so. And call him John - not the child," he snapped, nearing the end of his patience with the entire thing. Months of unexpectedly having to endure Sherlock without the buffer of the adult John Watson (cuteness factor did not diffuse crime scene tension so well as a few well-chosen threats from an ex-soldier) had thinned his patience to a fine, fine veneer. "He's not one of your experiments!"
"Of course not, Inspector." The smooth voice sounded more patronizing than placating, but he knew when to pick his battles.
"This is somewhat disconcerting news, Inspector Lestrade - because the return of such memories usually heralds the imminent physical progression to the subject's proper age."
For a minute he didn't quite register that, and then nearly dropped the mobile in sudden realization. "You mean he's getting ready to change back, finally? After all these delayed months?"
"It is possible," was the cautious reply. "I admit the situation is unprecedented and we are somewhat at a loss to predict results properly, given their singular nature. But I believe it would behoove you to forewarn my brother accordingly."
"Some reason why you can't tell him yourself? And who in the twenty-first century uses the word behoove, anyway?" he asked incredulously, running a hand through his hair. What was he, a bloody postal owl? "Has anyone ever told you that your selective communication skills for family are complete rubbish?"
"Quite so, by considerably more eloquent, though not as well-intentioned, members of our limited circle of acquaintances. Do warn my brother, Inspector, to monitor the child closely and keep me informed as to developments."
"As you wish, milord," he said, not bothering to veil the sarcasm, and hoping the elder Holmes could deduce as well as the younger when he was rolling his eyes.
A dry chuckle surprised him, before the line went blank.
Lestrade sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. This news would, in some bizarre way, probably break Sherlock's heart - and they would all miss the little tornado of energy that had brightened their lives for several months.
His melancholia must have been visible even to a concussed Sherlock, because he got a sharply questioning look when he returned.
"Sir?" Donovan asked softly, careful to not wake John, who had conked out after crying himself hoarse in Sherlock's arms. Lestrade pretended to not notice that his consultant was slowly stroking the child's damp curls, obviously unaware of his display (blame the happy drugs, which Lestrade would also be monitoring in coming weeks).
"I just talked to your brother," he said quietly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "He thinks the return of adult memories signals the re-transformation is going to happen soon."
Sally looked like she was about to cry, and hastily excused herself before any of them could become embarrassed. Sherlock looked no less stricken. "Are you certain?"
"Reasonably, given the other test subjects. John's just...taken a bit longer, apparently."
Sherlock glanced down at the sleeping child, curled up tightly against his bandaged side. "I do profess relief at the prospect at last," he sighed, head flopping back against the pillow in a flourish of tangled dark curls. "Although...this has been..."
"I know you're on the good drugs, but please, there's a limit to the amount of sap I can tolerate in one holiday season," Lestrade interjected, smothering a grin.
The younger man looked singularly unimpressed, and favored him with his best supercilious scowl. "What an utterly ridiculous notion, Inspector. Do leave the deducing games to the experts, there's a good fellow." The condescension would have been far more effective, in Lestrade's opinion, had Sherlock not been stuck in a too-big, puce-hued hospital gown, defiantly cuddling a fun-sized version of his flatmate under one arm and a rainbow parrot under the other.
He briefly debated the wisdom of saying so, and decided he would prefer to die another day.
"Are they keeping you overnight, then?"
"I should like to see them try," Sherlock snorted. "There is nothing wrong with me, Lestrade."
"Other than the fact that you've still got a dilated eye, and a few cracked ribs, and an hysterical little boy who's not going to easily let you out of his sight for the next few days?"
"That bad, eh?" Sherlock murmured with a sigh.
"Bit not good at least, I'll tell you that." Lestrade dropped into the vacated chair and leaned back, legs crossed. "How do you plan to proceed, knowing that any day now, the kid could change back?"
His question was met with a look of half-concussed dismay.
"According to your brother, you may not have much warning. He could wake up tomorrow his adult self, or it could be New Year's before he changes - we don't know, but apparently he's not going to age gradually like they thought. I just..." he paused, and then continued delicately. "I know it will be a shock for you, Sherlock, and I just want you to know there's nothing wrong with being...upset, a bit, that he's going to be changing back."
A look of surprise flared in Sherlock's icy eyes, before fading into a cautious deliberation. "I shall be more relieved than anything else, Inspector," he stated loftily. "Child-rearing is not and will never be my vocation of choice, now or ever."
"Right." Lestrade crossed his arms, leaning back in a relaxed posture. "Then you're not reluctant to see him regress?"
"Not in the least. I am unaccustomed to caring overmuch for my own needs, much less a small person's."
"And you're not going to miss the kid, even just a tiny bit?"
Sherlock's chin jutted out defiantly. "To do so would imply I was enjoying this task to begin with, Lestrade. I most certainly have not been fond of child-minding due to an inexcusably doltish oversight of my brother's."
Lestrade looked pointedly at the way John was snuggling up to his protector even in sleep. Sherlock's ear-tips flushed a pale pink. "I could hardly deny him the childhood he deserved but never received," he muttered gracelessly, fidgeting with the cheap hospital-issue coverlet.
"Never said you should," Lestrade answered mildly. "And I never said you should go to pieces over this development either - just that it would be perfectly normal to be a bit upset. God knows I'm going to miss the little beggar something terrible, even if I'll be pleased to see John of legal drinking age again. He's an adorable little boy, but I miss being able to have a coherent adult conversation."
"A mutual sentiment, I assure you," Sherlock murmured.
The child in question gave a tiny yawn, fingers flexing in the thin coverlet, and the detective unconsciously tightened his grip on the boy.
"Yes, well," Lestrade coughed. "I'll see what I can do about springing you, if you can promise me you'll not be an idiot about things if you get to go home, eh? No running about and chasing after John, not with those banged-up ribs."
"Tell that to the hyperactive monkey I live with," Sherlock responded dryly, indicating the snoozing bundle of blanket and exhausted child which drowsed next to him on the bed.
"I assure you, Lestrade," the detective added wearily, eyes sliding half-closed, "that I have no grander plans at the moment than to set things in order for John's retransformation, and to sleep off this headache."
"Subtle hint, eh." The DI smiled, and stood to leave. He wriggled a mobile phone carefully out of the sleeping child's side pocket, and placed it on the table beside Sherlock. "Here's your mobile. Call me if you need something, all right?"
"Yes, yes." A languid hand waved him away with clear dismissal. "Do your best to keep those infernal nurses from flapping about for a few hours, would you?"
Lestrade nodded, pulling the door nearly closed behind him.
Donovan was waiting for him, a rms crossed as she leaned against the wall across from the doorway. "Well?" she asked, worriedly.
"He seems to be taking it well enough - and I daresay I would too, if I'd been saddled with a toddler unexpectedly for five months," he mused.
"Still..."
"Still," he agreed, casting one fond glance back into the room and its occupants. Sherlock was propped up on a pillow and the stuffed parrot, busily tap-tapping away at his mobile and occasionally casting a glance or a small smile down at his tiny sleeping companion. "I think we're all going to miss the kid pretty bad."