Title: Never Too Late (50-54/?)
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


"Sherlock tired," John observed in a whisper, standing on tip-toe to peek over the chair-arm at the detective's tousled head.

"So he is, little man," Lestrade murmured, scooping the child up in his arms (after snapping a few photos for blackmail purposes on his phone) and smiling at the giggle he received. "Come on, let's leave him to it, shall we?"

John then proceeded to sneeze a viscous puddle into both hands, and looked completely unrepentant at the inspector's dismayed expression.

Ten minutes later, he'd cleaned up the child, had him use the loo, and bundled him into warm pyjamas. One dose of child's cough syrup and a small cup of milk later, and John was safely ensconced in his bed, blinking drowsily up at Lestrade, who was busy taking his temperature once more.

Fever dropping, which was good, though he knew it might fluctuate during the night. He had three options: stay and watch the child, or leave the flat and trust that John would be able to shout loud enough for Sherlock, or wake Sherlock up. The younger man looked utterly exhausted, and so he decided upon the former - at least until both Sherlock and John had gotten some sleep.

"Story?" John asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes with one fist, the other being curled around his precious bear.


"Story?" he repeated, mystified.

"Sherlock a'ways tells me story." John pouted, peering up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "Want one."

"Ah, well..." God in heaven help them, what sort of stories would Sherlock consider proper bedtime reading for children? "What kind of story?"

"'Bout me when I'm big," John informed him seriously.

His jaw dropped. "When you're - what?"

"Sherlock says I used t'be big," John explained, talking slowly as if Lestrade was too moronic to understand.

"He told you that?"

"Uh-huh." The little one yawned, reaching his free arm over his head and waving it aimlessly, like a kitten stretching out in the sun. "Somefing happened an' made me little."

"Well, yes," he agreed slowly, mind spinning with this development. "But - why did he tell you that, John; did he give a reason?"

"I 'membered somefing," the child said, shrugging. "Soldier men. Big guns. Fighting, in my head." John frowned, snuggling into his bear. "Bad dreams, 'Strade."

Horrified, he took in this information with a prayer that the child's nightmares would cease. A five-year-old dreaming of Afghanistan? It was unthinkable.

"What else did Sherlock tell you, John?" he asked, tucking the blanket around the tiny form.

"He said he wouldn't never leave me again," was the soft murmur, as sleep began to coax at the child's mind and body.


The DI smiled, as the honest love of a child shone out of the blue eyes blinking sleepily up at him. "That's very good, John. Does Sherlock take good care of you?"

"Mmhmm." John coughed softly into his bear, and Lestrade made a mental note to mention disinfecting to Sherlock. "But his soup is a litt-le dodgy," the child added as an afterthought, and grimaced. "Ew."

Lestrade laughed at the adult phraseology, no doubt overheard from Mrs. Hudson, and caught the little gesturing hand, tucking it back in. "Well I'm afraid I'm not a very good storyteller, John. Shall I put on some music instead?"

"Okay." The sleepy response was barely intelligible, and before Lestrade could figure out how to turn on the iDock (and Sherlock insisted he didn't spoil the kid!) John was fast asleep. The child's breathing was even, if a bit congested, and so he felt justified in popping back to the lounge to check on his other unofficial ward.

Sherlock had shifted positions in his sleep and was now sprawled in an ungainly heap of shock blanket - the man had apparently stolen more of them than Lestrade could count - in the armchair, one leg flung dramatically over the side and his head lolling against the armrest, dark curls just visible over top of the blanket.


Lestrade actually enjoyed the evening, for the missus was at her sister's for a "girl's weekend out" at the spas, and watching over an adorable little boy and his not-even-close-to-adorable caregiver while consuming the kindhearted Mrs. Hudson's most excellent baking was certainly preferable to eating lukewarm, cheap Thai and hoping Sherlock's creeper brother didn't try to call him for some reason. John's fever fluctuated a bit, causing him unrest, but each time he quieted readily enough when Lestrade sat beside him, soothing the fever-dreams and being a steadying presence for those moments when the child became more awake.

At least he enjoyed the night, until sometime after four in the morning (he'd nodded off after the child's fever went back down around 2:30) Sherlock woke himself up by rolling off his armchair and landing on the hearth with a crash loud enough to wake Mrs. Turner's married ones. It was certainly loud enough to wake both Lestrade and one small, sickly little boy, who jerked upright in terror and looked wildly about, tears already starting to well up.

"Hey, hey, shhhh," he said quickly, moving to obey the plea of outstretched arms. "It's just Sherlock, bet you he snored himself awake, eh? D'you think we should go see if he broke something?"

John giggled quietly into his shoulder, sudden fright banished.


Only Sherlock would look so disgruntled for succumbing to a level of child-rearing-related exhaustion which would have floored the best nanny weeks ago. The amateur sat on the floor in a miffed pile of blanket and wrinkled jacket, squinting blearily at his mobile.

John giggled again. "His hair's all messed up," the boy whispered with glee into his protector's ear, and Lestrade resisted the urge to laugh at the sight.

"It is four in the morning, Inspector," Sherlock snapped at length, glowering up at them from his blanket-shawl. "What is he doing up?"

"Sick," John informed him succinctly. "I's entitled."

"The devil is he finding this vocabulary all of a sudden?" Lestrade asked, incredulous.

Sherlock raked long fingers through his hair, and frowned. "John, how old are you?" he asked suddenly.

"Six!"

"Um..."

"Precisely, Lestrade. Given that Dr. Pendleton believed the illness to be due in part to the body's consumption of energy for rapid growth, it is no great feat to deduce that John would enter a growth spurt soon." Sherlock glided gracefully upward, took a step forward, and promptly forgot the blanket which coiled 'round his legs like an orange fleece snake. He crashed headfirst at Lestrade's feet, amid a round of giggles from his diminutive flatmate.

"I really do hate children," Lestrade heard uttered mournfully into the floor-boards.