people/methuselah87/works/11122237-lokis-madness
This is a t-shirt from my redbubble of this fanfiction.
There is also just Sherlock shirts, as well as just Loki shirts. And a few more.
I know they're expensive, so you don't have to buy one, I understand fully.
But if you do, thank you.
You've just lent me part of my family christmas gifts fund.
Hamish was tearing his room apart looking for something. In the living room, John was dying of a panic attack, muttering incoherent things as he nursed his cuppa, and Sherlock was calmly setting out fine china teacups and biscuits on the table he had so very strategically moved into the living room. He dodged around the panicking John as he prepared for the arrival of this dark god character, and once he was done he reached out and snatched the army man and pulled him into the kitchen.
"You need to stop falling off your rocker," Sherlock said firmly.
John gaped at him. "A GOD IS COMING TO THE FLAT TO STEAL OUR SON! I THINK I HAVE A RIGHT TO BE CONCERNED." He whispered fiercely.
Sherlock gave him a look. "Being a tad dramatic, are we?"
"ARE YOU BONKERS?! WHATS THE MATTER WITH YOU?!"
Sherlock took John by the shoulders and sat him down on a stool, forcing him to stop. "John," he said gently. "This is Hamish's father, if we panic he will get the wrong impression. He'll think we're dismissing his real father because we want him to ourselves. Just because we do, and we want to, doesn't mean we can."
John shook his head. "I'm still not right with it," he protested, glancing out the window. "This isn't right, putting Hamish in this position."
"He will be fine. We'll all be fine." Sherlock replied easily. "Please, try and gather your wits. You'll need them if we're to cope with anything Loki may throw at us. He is not powerful, but he is a trickster. He'll certainly try to distract us and pull something."
With a hopeless look, John looked at Sherlock. "I don't know if I can. Our boy will be inches from a murderer. He may hug him, hold his hand. Hands that have slaughtered millions."
Sherlock drew in close and they shared a brief kiss, short but soft, and John sighed. "I know," Sherlock replied kindly. "I'm scared for him too. And I don't scare easy." John looked at him, and their eyes locked. "But I also don't back down from a challenge, especially one that my boy needs me for," the taller man said, his icy eyes cold like steel. "Now are you going to get yourself in order, or not?"
After a moment of gathering himself, John nodded, and they parted ways, in different ways cleaning and preparing for their guest.
Hamish found his best black button down and brown trousers, and tied on his nicest shoes. They were a tad small, but he refused sneakers or boots, and loafers were only for school. He combed his hair and made his bed and scrambled to put his room back together. He was excited - his stomach broiled with it. As he moved about the room, he felt his daddy drawing near. He was with someone else; he was distracted from his own nerves, brooding over something, as she prodded him, trying to cleanse the infection she'd apparently administered.
Hamish tilted his head. He hadn't seen her before. Maybe she was the one who'd housed his daddy while he was hurt. He would have to thank her quite a bit. All smiles, he bounced from his room to the bathroom to check his teeth and went into the living room. His daddy's were calm as they put together tea. Hamish grabbed his book off the couch and paced the room.
"He's almost here," he blurted, pacing back to his room, up and down the halls. John and Sherlock exchanged a look. John went downstairs, and Sherlock took a seat at the table, sitting back and crossing his legs. He would let the boy slow off some steam. Then maybe he'd sit still when this man arrived.
Downstairs, John locked up the cafe and was about to head back upstairs when a car pulled up out front. He gulped.