Title: Interlude (85-90/100ish)
Universe: A Messy Business/Never Too Late
Rating: G
Word Count (this bit): 6x221
Warnings: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff
General Summary: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.
This Part Summary: Sherlock gets John a kitten because of Reasons. And Lestrade becomes a hired man.
A/N: Promised holiday arc. This is AU from A Messy Business, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October. 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.
This Chapter AN: There's a picture of the kitten on my LiveJournal page for this story; just follow the homepage link on my profile to get to my journal (kcscribbler).
"Out," Lestrade said with a playful ruffle of John's tousled hair, as he forcibly scooted the child out the door. "Go tell Mrs. Hudson all about it, eh? Let Uncle Greg have a bit of a chat with Sherlock."
"Okay!" John's delighted yells could be heard a moment later as he pounded down the stairs and back to Mrs. Hudson's apartment.
Lestrade turned to his sheepish consultant, arms folded. "You got him a cat."
"Best see a specialist about those hearing aids, Lestrade, if you could not deduce as much from that conversation," Sherlock snipped waspishly, now that John was safely out of earshot. He felt the beginnings of a headache approaching.
"You got the kid a cat." Lestrade's earnest eyes were wide with amused horror. "A cat, in this house, Sherlock. Are you mad?"
"He told me once that he asked for one every year and never received one, Lestrade," Sherlock shot back. "Would you have me deny him that much on the one chance he has to have a happier childhood?"
"Sherlock, it's...quite nice, really...but what on earth are you going to do with it once he changes back?"
Sherlock froze, eyes blinking owlishly. "I...had not thought that far ahead," he admitted, dismay washing over him.
"Please tell me you thought far enough ahead to buy a kitty-litter box."
"Er..."
"The things I do for you and that brat downstairs," Lestrade said with a fatherly sigh, buttoning his coat. "Did you get anything besides the cat, Sherlock?"
"The woman at the breeder's told me what food to purchase?" Sherlock flopped gingerly onto the couch. "I was to go pick the animal up tonight -"
"You'll do nothing of the kind," Lestrade warned. "Unless you want to be flat on your back for the rest of the hols. D'you think John will be happy about that once he changes back?"
Sherlock scowled, looking much like a child himself, and the DI smothered a grin. "Wait, you're to pick it up at a breeder's? What sort of cat are we talking about here, Sherlock?" he asked, afraid to know the price.
Sherlock wearily hauled his phone out from his pocket and, after clicking through the menu, held it over his head and backward so that Lestrade could see.
"Scottish fold," Sherlock recited in a tone of immeasurable boredom. "Good-natured, independent, very loving, highly adaptable to change both in environment and household personnel. Typically tend to choose one human to bond with and remain loyally affectionate to that person for life."
Lestrade stopped trying to hide his widening grin, because Sherlock had just described the man the kitten's soon-to-be owner would shortly become.
He coughed discreetly. "Did you pick it because it's cute, Sherlock, or because you think its characteristics sound vaguely familiar?"
Sherlock's mobile suddenly became extremely absorbing, evidently.
"Or is it because it's the exact colour of that horrible tan jumper of his?"
"Shut up, Lestrade. Haven't your minions burned down your office by now or something?"
Lestrade could see Sherlock's ear-tips turning a bright pink under his tangled hair, and he knew well enough by now when not to push it. "I'll just head out to do your shopping then, eh?"
Sherlock's long, pale neck craned over the couch-arm to look at him. "Since when do you do my shopping, Inspector?" he asked haughtily.
"Oh, didn't I tell you? That brother of yours paid me double my holiday pay to make sure you don't kill John before he changes back." Concealing his amusement at Sherlock's rude gesture and moan of dismay, Lestrade donned his gloves again. "So where's the address of this cat breeder?"
His phone chirped before he could even finish the question, and Sherlock silently pointed at the mobile. "Right then. Litter box, litter scoop, air freshener, kitten food, water and food bowls, toys, scratching post. Unless you'd prefer it claw your dressing gown to shreds?" he asked dryly, when Sherlock looked dumbfounded at the list of caring-for-your-kitten basics.
Lestrade's phone chirped before he'd got halfway down the street, collar up against the rain/snow mix.
I am going to regret this, am I not.
He chuckled and fired off a quick reply, fumbling a bit momentarily due to his gloves. Most likely. But if you ever do anything to endanger that animal I will vivisect you.
Is my brother also paying you to read the thesaurus?
Wouldn't mind if he did. Need anything else before the shops close for the holiday?
Not that I caaohoieubhk2ksd
hiiiiiiiiiiii :)))))
Lestrade blinked.
Sherlock?
(~O_O)~ ~(O_O~)
He stared at the tiny screen in some bewilderment. Did Sherlock even know emoticons existed? Somehow he couldn't see the man not deleting that genre of texting, for it was hardly worth of a shelf in his mind palace.
What happened, Sherlock?
*John* happened, Inspector. Why did I permit you to release me from hospital?
He laughed, startling an innocent passer-by who gave him a sidelong glance as she scurried through the drizzle. I see. Well, do you need anything else?
Tranquillisers.
As many as they will let you have.
A short pause.
PLEASE.
Arriving at the warmly-lit Boots (ten minutes closer than Sainsbury's, and why shouldn't he spend Mycroft Holmes's blood money to save himself the walk), he fired off another message before entering the holiday bedlam.
If you hadn't nicked my identification when I got to Baker Street, I might be able to. Unfortunately...you see my dilemma.
I hate you. Loathe, abhor, detest, despise, abominate, execrate, and disrelish. All of the above.
Are you mocking my thesaurus-reading, or trying to come up with names for the kitten?
I will triple whatever Mycroft is paying you if you will shut up.
I'll be sure to pass that along.
Lestrade wasn't quite sure how Sherlock managed to get German swear words past the spell-check, but apparently the man could. Why should he have been surprised.
Three hours later, at the end of which he was debating the elder Holmes's payment being equal compensation for effort and patience, he stumbled up the steps of 221B with a carrier containing a squalling kitten.
Sherlock had evidently heard the piercing yowls, because he came scooting out the lounge door (as fast as his strained ribs would allow) before Lestrade had cleared the twelfth step, closing it noiselessly behind him.
"Finally fell asleep after twenty minutes of Christmas carols," he muttered by way of explanation, nodding to the closed door. "Twenty. Minutes. Of ghastly holiday pop music." Arms folded, he glared at Lestrade, who was trying his best not to crack and just tell Sherlock how outrageously cute he was as a babysitter.
"Twenty. Minutes."
"You're a good man, Sherlock."
"Unfortunately," the younger man said with a martyred sigh. Have you the rest?"
"Sent ahead; would have been delivered about an hour ago."
"I was engaged in a resoundingly unrealistic film involving barely-believable characters in outrageous costumes teaching children the dubious values of make-believe over the world of hard science," Sherlock snapped sourly. "Was it you or Aunt Sally that introduced him to the 'wizarding world of Harry Potter'?"
"Ah...Anderson, actually..."
"Of course; that makes complete sense." Sherlock's sarcastic nod was sharp enough to make Lestrade, a (nearly) innocent bystander, cringe. "The man can barely hold his own in this world, and so he decides to mentally escape into another where science plays a dubious role at best - corrupting my flatmate in the process."
"Sherlock, really." He set the cat carrier down, amid a rumble of disapproval from the kitten inside. "It's basic children's culture; I don't see how you can justify hating it."
"You're not the one who has had a hyperactive five-year-old crawling about for the last half-hour yelling 'Accio John's Christmas presents!' at the top of his highly-developed lungs," Sherlock pointed out dryly.
Lestrade swallowed a laugh. "Well, good news is that he won't be five for much longer," he offered. "Has he shown any other signs of changing back?"
Sherlock sat gingerly on the steps, wrapping an arm around his ribcage. "Only minute indications," he sighed. "Nothing concrete, nothing anyone else could observe. But I believe it will be soon. Possibly tonight, possibly Boxing Day...possibly not until the New Year. We have no data with which to predict."
"Mycroft said the same," he agreed. "John's going to get some massive compensation from the government, you know."
"He had better," Sherlock snapped, with a flash of hitherto unseen anger. "It's been six months, six months of his life he's lost thanks to my brother's incompetence."
"And six months you've been without your friend and blogger," Lestrade pointed out with careful gentleness. "And personal assistant, and grocery shopper, and bodyguard, and -"
Sherlock's dry chuckle interrupted him, but the sound was highly welcome. "I must say I look forward to a breakfast conversation which does not revolve around the dubious merits of jam versus marmalade, or how many Choco Puffs he can fit in his mouth simultaneously."
"You do know...you've probably been a better parent than he had growing up, yeah?"
Sherlock's grey gaze was far away. "I do hope so, Lestrade," he said wistfully.
"There's no doubt about it," the DI said firmly, and extended a hand to help his consultant/sort-of-friend/who-knew off the stairs. "John's been a very lucky little boy."