Sherlock snatched the list off the fridge and scanned it quickly. Do this, do that, don't do any of these...what did John think he was, an ignorant child? Several of the items had been scribbled hard in capital letters, as though the doctor had doubted whether Sherlock would actually read the damn list and intended to make sure the most important points would catch his eye whether he wanted them to or not.

FEED HIM A SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE LUNCH AT A SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE TIME. ASK MRS HUDSON FOR SUGGESTIONS IF NEEDED.

DO NOT INCLUDE HIM IN ANY EXPERIMENTS INVOLVING FLAME, HIGH HEAT, EXTREME COLD, TOXINS, POISONS, ACIDS, LIKELY ALLERGENS, EXPOSURE TO BLOOD OR HUMAN BODY PARTS, DEAD ANIMALS CONSIDERED IN TYPICAL SOCIETY AS 'CUTE', BROKEN GLASS, SMOKE OF ANY KIND, DRUGS INCLUDING HALLUCINOGENICS, CARCINOGENICS, GASSES, ANYTHING ELSE THAT COULD POTENTIALLY ASPHYXIATE, LIVE OR LOADED WEAPONS, HEIGHTS, DEEP WATER, OR LIKELY PHOBIA TRIGGERS INCLUDING SPIDERS.

IF HE WANTS TO COLOUR MAKE SURE YOU'VE NOT GIVEN HIM THE POISON PENCILS. YOU COULD JUST THROW THEM OUT OR GIVE THEM BACK AND SAVE ME HAVING TO PUT THEM IN LISTS.

REMEMBER HE MIGHT NEED A NAP.

DON'T LET HIM EAT MORE THAN A FEW BISCUITS, NO MATTER HOW MANY MRS HUDSON BRINGS UP.

DON'T MAKE MRS HUDSON BRING UP BISCUITS, SHE'S AN OLDER WOMAN WITH A BAD HIP AND YOU CAN TAKE THOSE STAIRS IN ABOUT FIVE STEPS YOU LAZY SOD.

DON'T LEAVE HIM ALONE.

DON'T TAKE HIM ON A CASE.

DON'T GO OUT WITHOUT TEXTING ME WHERE.

PLAY WITH HIM.

Most of the rest of the list merely reiterated these main points in different ways and Sherlock quickly scanned through them without finding anything of particular note. He glanced at the little digital clock on the oven. Socially acceptable lunch at a socially acceptable time. John should have been more specific, he thought sullenly. If Sherlock went by socially acceptable Spanish standards he wouldn't have to think about lunch until three or four, perhaps, while for a period the ancient Romans had believed it healthiest to eat only one meal a day, which Hadrian had already had, which would mean he didn't have to think about lunch at all.

John probably wouldn't like that argument, though, he reflected, and if he were perfectly honest with himself (which he always claimed to be, and in fact always was, but only in a very tiny attic room of his mind palace) when he'd spied the marks of starvation on the boy and John had clinically listed every sign and symptom, he'd wanted nothing more than to spirit Hadrian away to Mycroft and let his effusive older brother unleash his most lavish epicurean ways upon the child.

He smirked slightly. An image, indeed. And one he had a feeling would soon enough come to pass, given where John had just sneaked (so he thought; really, John, don't you know you only wear that jumper you bought at an outpost in Afghanistan anymore when you go to see my brother? Reminds you of being a soldier, makes you feel stronger, more equal to him; you don't have to do that, Mycroft's a snivelling prat and you're worth ten of him in any jumper) off to.

'Hadrian! How do you feel about going out for Italian food?'

The boy wandered into the kitchen. Sherlock wondered briefly what he'd been doing. 'Are we 'llowed to go out?'

Sherlock frowned. 'Of course we are. Why wouldn't we be?'

Hadrian shrugged and sat on a kitchen chair, swinging his legs. 'John didn't say we're going out today.'

There was a long pause in which Sherlock very nearly tilted his head and fluttered his hands, but caught himself with a firm mental NO. 'Is there a reason,' he asked evenly, instead, 'that John should have the final say on all of our actions?'

Harry shrugged again. Sherlock made a mental note to end that irritating habit as quickly as possible. 'John makes the rules,' he said simply.

'Does he.' Sherlock eyed the boy with mild consternation and quickly reviewed their interactions from meeting to now. Indeed, John had made most of the decisions when in the child's presence, and probably gave off a more identifiable aura of disciplinarian. That wouldn't do at all. 'I am equally as adult as John and equally entitled to the various privileges that accompany adulthood,' he informed Harry, and assumed that would be the end of the conversation, but the boy fixed him with narrowed green eyes.

'What 'bout...the freakish stuff?' he asked, cautiously waving a hand in an expansive and incomprehensible gesture.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in return. 'I'm not sure what you mean by 'freakish,' as we have already had that discussion,' he said, slowly and clearly, and how did people normally deal with children? So slow and confused and if this particular one weren't so interesting he knew he'd probably simply have snatched the boy away from his unsuitable relatives and handed him off to Lestrade. 'But if you mean the...magic...' And he'd debated with himself over that term, but he'd also read half the children's books in the shop, and apparently for Hadrian's age group everything was either normal or controlled by magic or absurd 'futuristic' science, so he was left with no alternative. 'Magic is perfectly acceptable to both John and I, equally.'

'So...it's not freaky I can do things?'

God help him. 'No. It is certainly not freaky.'

'Even though I went in John's room?' the little one persisted. Sherlock sighed and squatted down in front of him so they were eye to eye.

'Didn't he already say that was alright?'

'Yeah...'

'Yes, not yeah, please, Hadrian.'

'Yes,' Harry repeated dutifully. Sherlock's smile turned sharp.

'Good. D'you think you could do it again?'

Harry frowned, his eyebrows pressed together with a little wrinkle between them. 'Yeah- yes? I dunno, sometimes I just think I want out of my cupboard and it works and sometimes it doesn't for a long time.'

Sherlock passed over the cupboard comment for the time being; he'd figured that one out the first night when he'd come upon Harry curled up in his wardrobe. 'Good,' he said enthusiastically, pasting a bright smile on his face. 'Do you like Italian food?'

Hadrian raised an eyebrow in such a mimic of his own common expression that Sherlock was a little impressed. 'Dunno? Aunt P'tunia says foreign food is bad.'

'Yes, but we've already established Aunt Petunia is an idiot, haven't we?' Sherlock reminded him. Hadrian giggled. 'Now. Italian food. Spaghetti, lasagna, garlic bread, pizza. Do you like those?'

Hadrian thought for a long moment, which pleased Sherlock greatly. He wouldn't have his child blurting out answers without considering them first. 'Never had pizza,' the boy finally said, pensively. 'I like psghetti-'

'Spaghetti.'

'-spaghetti, though. And Dudley like pizza.'

'Spaghetti and pizza it is, then,' Sherlock announced, and scooped the boy up to rest on his hip as he unfolded to his feet. 'I'll lock the front door, and as soon as you get us out we'll go to Angelo's.'

.:*:.

The rest of the drive passed in the usual (and when the hell did he start thinking of semi-consensual kidnappings as usual?) awkward silence and he was, also as usual (and he really needed to get out more, make some normal friends) a little relieved when the car entered Hammersmith, fully expecting to stop in front of an old industrial building.

They didn't.

The car went on, crossing the bridge into Barnes, and finally pulled up in the car park to the Wetland Centre.

Well, that was different.

John got out, a little perplexed, and when Mycroft's PA did nothing but glance at him and tilt her head in the direction of the park, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and started walking. He'd never been before, but decided to follow the path anti-clockwise just to be a little irritating and so he wouldn't have to pass the visitor centre buildings. The water was high and the reeds dying back for the winter. A few ducks drifted across the surface of the pond, but everything was fairly quiet, and no-one else had braved the chill and threat of rain. Mycroft and his ever-present umbrella weren't to be seen, though, either, and John wondered for an unpleasant moment if the elder Holmes had finally gotten sick of John and his enabling role in Sherlock's life and sent someone to drown him in the pond. His body wouldn't be found for ages.

But then he stumbled across one of the wildlife hides scattered through the park, and inside sat Mycroft Holmes at a little iron patio table all set up for tea, a space heater in the corner, umbrella hanging over the back of his chair.

John ducked in and took the empty seat.

Mycroft eyed him for a long moment, hands folded in his lap and his legs crossed primly. Then he sat up properly and picked up the teapot.

'Milk, no sugar, I believe, Doctor Watson?'

'Thanks,' John mumbled, and accepted the dainty cup. He didn't drink right away but wrapped his chilled fingers around the heat. 'So,' he said, a little revived by the warmth and the lack of imminent threat of drowning. 'What're we doing here? Not your usual style.' He took a sip of tea and sighed gratefully as the warmth spread all the way to his belly.

Mycroft gazed out the narrow window of the hide with a surprisingly melancholy expression. 'I do so enjoy watching the ducks,' he said wistfully. 'I find I rarely have time for such pleasures anymore, and must take the opportunity where I can.'

John stared. 'You like...ducks,' he repeated blankly.

Mycroft fixed him with a haughtily raised eyebrow. 'Doctor Watson, you seem to be under the misapprehension that I am something of a call service. I indulge you out of nothing more than that- indulgence. You are, for the time being, more of a benefit to my brother than a hindrance to me and your utter lack of his ability to avoid my surveillance helps me to keep him under watch. However...' He trailed off delicately and trailed a finger along the black handle of his umbrella, then snapped his gaze up to meet John's with a cold intensity. 'If you begin to overstep your bounds and attempt to abuse our relationship, Doctor Watson, you will tip the scales.'

John knew full well that a threat from this simple-looking man was more dangerous than any gun he'd had held to his head in Afghanistan. He let a pause settle over them, just to show he'd taken the words seriously, and sipped his tea. 'I need to talk to you about Hadrian,' he murmured finally.

'Ah, yes. Sherlock's experiment.' Mycroft was all business again, serving himself a little shortbread biscuit and bringing it to his mouth with a crisp white serviette. 'I am well aware that there is something unusual about the boy, he wouldn't have kept Sherlock's attention otherwise; would you be wishing to get rid of him or legitimise him?'

'Legitimise,' John said quickly. 'Definitely legitimise. We don't want his family to be able to take him back, or anything.'

'Mm,' Mycroft hummed, and peered at John over his teacup in that penetrating way that always made him feel a little annoyed with the younger brother and unnerved with the elder. 'Not too difficult, in theory; identification papers drawn up later in life for an orphan or refugee are rarely worth a second glance...and, you would be wanting adoption papers...?'

'Yes,' John choked out, before he could allow himself to think for too long.

'I see.' Mycroft continued to visually pick him apart. 'Doctor Watson...I give my brother a long leash, far longer than I should. I allow him his eccentricities and shield him from the repercussions any other citizen would incur. However, only in the most desperate situations to I allow these eccentricities to pass by without even the slightest explanation.' He leaned forward slightly, staring John down. 'This does not appear to me to be a desperate situation.'

John swallowed. 'Well- see, there was this email someone sent to the website about her post getting stolen. Sherlock was in a strop because Lestrade hadn't rung him in weeks, and nothing else interesting had come along, so I convinced him to answer.' He fiddled with his teacup, remembering how snappish and sharp Sherlock had been at the time. 'It was an older woman, and she was missing her post at least once every week, even though the postman swore he delivered it and she trusted him because it'd been the same man for years and she knew him pretty well, you know, little chats on the doorstep in the morning and that. And she'd mentioned it to her son, who was upset- unreasonably upset, she said, given all she usually got in the post was flyers and a few magazines, she did most of her billing online. And he suggested she email Sherlock. So, we went down to Surrey.'

Suddenly, John's phone buzzed in his pocket. He gave Mycroft an apologetic smile and pulled it out.

Taking Hadrian to lunch.

Angelo's. Acceptable? –SH

John smiled. He'd grown to like the cheery ex-con- probably because of his role in John's ditching of the cane, then because he always turned away John's money when he tried to pay for a meal whether Sherlock was there or not. He'd taken to stopping in sometimes when he had the cab fare and a long lunch break at the surgery. He'd never brought a date there, though. It felt wrong somehow, and all he could see when the thought came to mind was Angelo's genuinely pleased face as he celebrated John and Sherlock's 'partnership.'

Sherlock had far more people caring about him than he realised. Such an idiot, for such a genius.

Ignoring Mycroft's entirely unsubtle finger drumming on the table, he quickly typed back,

Fine. Don't order him any

shellfish, I haven't checked

for allergies. JW

'Sorry,' John muttered, and put the phone back in his pocket. 'I told Sherlock to text me if they went out.' Mycroft relaxed back into his chair and raised his eyebrows slightly as if to say, go on. John took a deep breath, and gazed out the gap between the hide wall and ceiling at the ducks paddling morosely across the dingy grey water. 'It was this place called Little Whinging...'

twitter slash HadrianHolmes. Also, really guys? I get my first flame and it's because I was sick and didn't feel like writing for a few days? C'mon, you can do better than that!