Chapter 11
If John had known the chaos that was to follow his simple observation, he probably would have quietly taken Harry to an ophthalmologist while Sherlock was out. On the other hand, most of the events would probably have happened anyway in due time, he quite liked Sophia in the end, and he honestly can't regret discovering Muggle Mounters. Though he could have done without the snakes. Or the nightmares. Or the abrupt introduction to the darker side of magic. But of course, he knew none of what was about to occur, and so he made his statement out loud and without any thought to the consequences.
"I think Harry needs glasses."
"Hmm?" Sherlock looked up from whatever he was busy with on John's computer to first stare blankly at John, and then to focus his attention on where Harry was drawing at his feet. At least he had been drawing the last time Sherlock had looked, coloring madly over blobs and stick figures that probably meant a lot to the artist but otherwise required a detective to determine what they were meant to be. Now he was writing.
Harry was even worse at writing than he was at drawing. Usually, he only pretended and made scribbles. Or he copied and created wriggly, lopsided, often backwards or upside down letters. John always praised such attempts profusely, letting Harry 'read' it to him. Sherlock found such attempts fascinating.
This time, Harry had taken a more active approach. Sherlock watched as he studiously and determinedly formed a squiggly letter. Then he would jump up, run over to the wall and stare hard at Sherlock's Rules. Then he would run back to his writing, and studiously copy down another letter.
Sherlock began to see what John meant. The wall chart was large, meant to be read easily from anywhere in the room. Harry should have been able to copy letters from where he was sitting. Now that John had mentioned it, Sherlock remembered several incidences where he saw Harry squinting or going close to an object to look at it.
Sherlock was so lost in thought that he didn't realize Harry had finished until the boy was suddenly thrusting a piece of paper at him. Harry was flushed from running back and forth but there was a proud glow about him as he showed his work.
It wasn't all writing after all. Mostly it was a drawing. There was a stick man inside a scribbled black blobby thing, a thing that looked like a sun, though Sherlock suspected some of the 'rays' were meant to be arms and legs and some were hair, and a balloon looking head with a three legs attached, or possibly four but two overlapped. The picture was signed SHAreRY. In hindsight, Sherlock teaching him to write 'Sherry' and then John insisting on re-teaching him 'HARRY' was probably a bad idea.
Harry often signed his pictures. The writing at the top was unexpected, and explained the need to run to the wall chart. It said, 'Sherlock's'. More or less. Some letters ran into the others, and none were drawn in a steady hand, but they all went the right direction and the spelling was perfect.
"Do you like it?" Harry asked, after watching Sherlock inspect the picture. He crawled into Sherlock's lap to point out the highlights of his masterpiece. "That's you," he said, pointing at the stick figure, "And that's me," here he was pointing at the balloon, "And that's John!" He was the sun, of course. "And this says 'family'," here he was pointing at some meaningless scribbles, "So we're all holding hands. And it's to Sherlock, love Sherry. Do you like it?"
For some inexplicable reason, Sherlock felt something caught in his throat that made it hard to answer. So he hugged the young artist and smiled instead and looked towards John to make sure he wasn't completely ruining positive reinforcement. He can still remember the disappointed frown John had given him the other day when he told Harry the cookies he had baked with Mrs. Hudson were too dry. John didn't look disappointed this time though. He had a calm, warm expression that somehow made the lump in his throat feel better and worse at the same time.
"I'm putting this picture in my Remember Book," Sherlock managed to say at last. Harry beamed. Then he went to draw a picture for John. John went back to reading his novel. And Sherlock went back to the laptop where he immediately started to research eye problems.
"Can't you use magic to just…poof his eyesight better?" John asked later when Sherlock finally came to him for his doctorly expertise in locating a good ophthalmologist.
Sherlock's response was to mumble 'glutinic energy' before giving him a weighty tome entitled 'Genetics VS Environment' which turned out to be surprisingly interesting from a doctor's standpoint. He was deep into the chapter devoted to hairdo jinx malfunctions and imagining Sherlock with pink roses for hair when Sherlock came to see if he'd found an eye examiner yet. Then Sherlock huffed in annoyance and flipped the pages to the section relevant to eyes.
The short answer was that magic can't permanently altar genetics. The long answer was something to do with every object's inherent knowledge of self. John almost thought he understood when Sherlock yet again interrupted, holding Harry up into his face so that Harry could say, "Please stop being boring, Uncle John."
Sherlock regretted teaching Harry to say that rather quickly. John found an ophthalmologist.
It was after John had scheduled the appointment that events began to escalate, though it all seemed perfectly innocent at first. John had, naturally, decided on a time when he'd be free to go with Harry to the appointment. Sherlock's schedule could be erratic after all, and it wasn't the sort of thing to foist onto a babysitter. But then Indira got sick and John was asked to take her shift and it was only after he said yes and went to write it into his schedule that he realized it meant he couldn't take Harry. Luckily, Sherlock remained perfectly free. Or unluckily. Depending upon one's perspective.
The day of the check up started out perfectly normal. Sherlock spent the early morning hours in 221 C working on some experiment or other so John spent his time clearing the table of bits of glass where Sherlock had been teaching Harry about bending light the night before and then made breakfast. Harry and John ate. Then Harry was worried about Sherlock starving so they made a plate for him together.
John checked on the door to 221 C and saw it still had the DANGER 4 sign up. That meant he was working with something volatile, and any distractions, up to and including knocking on the door, could lead to explosions. Huffing in annoyance, John sent a text and went to see if Mrs. Hudson could keep an eye on Harry until Sherlock finished his experiment.
She could. John went to work. He spent the rest of the morning amongst crying sick children, hypochondriacs, and diseased adults. It was a nice change from the chaos of home. He sent two more texts to Sherlock before he finally got an answer. No, Sherlock had not blown up the flat, Mrs. Hudson was exaggerating. Yes, he remembered Sherry's appointment. Then things got a bit busy and it wasn't until he broke for lunch that he had a chance to check his messages.
-Yes I have the address. You gave it to me. And wrote it on a note. And told Mrs. Hudson. And Sherry.
-We have arrived. Dr. Prewett must be color blind. Only explanation for color scheme.
-Help. Am trapped inside rainbow vomit. Tiny humans surrounding me. Need backup.
-Tiny humans with mums.
-Sherry was good. Doctor is an idiot. Color blind eye doctor. Glasses ready in a week.
-Uncle Mycroft stuck his nose in. Glasses ready in one hour. We need an owl.
And then the texts ended. John read over the last text once, and then again. The last sentence still didn't make any sense. He finished the last two hours of Indira's shift with much less calm than when he had started.
Finally he started for home. He wondered if Harry was already wearing his new glasses. He hoped that Sherlock had helped to choose some nice frames. And he really really really hoped that Sherlock had not found someplace to get an owl.
Sherlock hadn't. Yet.