AN: *pterodactyl noises* Guys! I have been locked out of my stupid ffn account for ages! But I finally managed to get back in. So you all are wonderful and patient, and just know I have not abandoned you my darlings. Without further ado...
John took Sherlock home the next day when it was clear there was nothing else for the doctors to check for, the tests all coming up negative for anything out of the ordinary. Even with the complete, and extended medical history provided by Mycroft, there was nothing indicating Sherlock was anything other than a healthy, if not small for his age, five-year-old.
After a night of good solid rest, Sherlock seemed a little better, and when the doctor approached him about taking him home earlier than they first thought, John was relieved. And even though the little boy was still withdrawn and pale, and much too quiet for John's liking, it was clear Sherlock was glad to be going home, too.
Now they're back at Baker Street, taking advantage of the quiet of the late morning. They are reclined on the sofa, Sherlock curled up on John's chest, drowsily playing with the stitches of John's jumper, little finger running up and down the cable-knit. If it weren't for this steady motion, John would think he'd fallen asleep.
He seemed to be clingier than usual, keeping John in his sights at all times, and seeking out the closeness whenever he was near. John didn't mind, as he was also loath to leave him for any extended periods of time. It was hard to believe that two days ago everything was fine, John making hotcakes in the kitchen while Sherlock giggled at his failed attempt at flipping them in the air and catching them on the plate.
John brings his hand up, threading his fingers through Sherlock's soft curls. How is it that everything is suddenly so uncertain? The trial and the ensuing scare did a number on John's stalwart confidence, and now with the threat of bloody Mycroft hanging over his head –
"You think loud," Sherlock whispers, halting the constant loop in John's brain. His hand stops its caressing, and after a moment Sherlock butts his head into his palm.
John blinks, a small chuckle escaping as he resumes his ministrations. "I'll try to keep it down," he says softly, registering how warm and sleepy Sherlock is becoming. Even though he slept a lot in the hospital, it was mostly due to the mild sedatives he was given to combat his anxiety, and John wants to encourage as much natural sleep as he can. "Try to get some shuteye, Bones."
"M'not tired," Sherlock says. It's rather unconvincing when he yawns a moment later.
"Right," John drawls, moving to sit up.
"No!" Sherlock says, tiny arms encircling his neck, legs trying to squirrel their way around his waist. "Please! I don't want to go to my room. I'll close my eyes, promise, John."
John sighs, trying to look somewhat stern, but then lowers himself back down, cuddling Sherlock tight. As if he could honestly reprimand him after the ordeal he's gone through the past few days.
Sherlock breathes out a little sigh, head tucking securely under John's chin where a couple of his hairs catch on the few days of growth on John's face. After a moment, Sherlock shifts his head again, listening to the scritchy-scratch of stubble before lifting up to look at John. He plants both palms on John's cheeks, investigating the bristly feeling, and John is transported back to that first morning where they had both woken up almost exactly like this on the small hide-a-bed in 221's basement flat.
There was an utter contentment that morning, John remembers; a clarity of purpose that, suddenly, what he did mattered again. His life made a sort of sense that had been lacking, that dull aimlessness finally dissipating. He remembers feeling something for once, when all there had been was icy numbness. Sherlock brought him back into the land of the living, like the sun burning away so many days of fog, and to even try to imagine his life without him, causes John's heart to kick, and his throat to tighten.
"Love you, sunshine," John whispers, voice hoarse, eyes stinging. Sherlock grins at him, fingers wiggling against his cheeks.
"Love you too, Papa," Sherlock says, and stretches up to kiss John where he can reach, which happens to only be his chin. When he pulls back, he wrinkles his nose a little in a scowl. "But your face is too scratchy."
John bursts into a laugh, more out of relief than anything — the tears threatening to spill suddenly channeled into a different, and very much welcomed, form of release. The overwhelming thoughts of the past forty-eight hours ease in a sort of catharsis with the return of this quiet domesticity, and John seizes it.
"Too scratchy?" John says, mock outraged, bouncing Sherlock a little on his chest.
"It's like a hedgehog!"
"A hedgehog?!"
"Yes!" Sherlock says, lowering his hands. John catches one of them and brings it back to his face where he then proceeds to rub his cheek against it. Sherlock squirms, giggling.
"Maybe I'll grow a beard," John says, and Sherlock tries to pull his hand back. "Or a moustache!"
"No-o!" he says through his laughter.
"So, you're saying I need a shave?"
"Yeah!" Sherlock exclaims, placing both his little paws back on John's face. After a moment he frowns, then looks up, curiosity in his eyes. "Can you show me how?"
John grins, squeezing him before sitting them both up. "Come on, then. No time like the present."
Fifteen minutes later finds the pair of them in the loo freshly showered, towels around their waists, with shaving foam on their cheeks. It's all very serious manly-business, and Sherlock scrutinises his foggy reflection from where he stands on a step ladder next to John.
"Now," John says, lifting his straight razor to his face. He watches, amused, as Sherlock does the same with the dull butter knife John gave him for all intents and purposes, "the key is to go with the grain, instead of against." He demonstrates by carefully pulling the blade in little two inch swipes down towards his jaw. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock negotiate how to hold the butter knife in attempt to imitate John exactly, and he tries not to laugh. That would be very bad both for his little boy's pride, and potentially, his nose being so close to the straight razor like it is.
After swiping some shaving foam off his cheek, Sherlock copies John, and wipes off the excess on the flannel draped over the edge of the basin. He looks up with a patchy stripe on his face, beaming. "Look, John!"
"Very good, Bones," John says.
"Hoo, hoo!" Mrs. Hudson's voice floats in from the sitting room.
"Missus Husdon! Come and see!" Sherlock chirps a second later. His delight and eagerness at showing their landlady how to shave his face is enough for John to tamp down some of his embarrassment when Mrs. Hudson rounds the corner. Some. He is, after all, in nothing but a towel.
However, their benevolent landlady doesn't even bat an eyelash. "Well what do we have here?"
"We're shaving! See?" Sherlock says, taking her hand and stroking her fingers through the stripe of skin exposed through the foam. "Smooth."
Mrs. Hudson catches John's eye in the mirror, and they both bite back a smile. "Very dapper, young man," she nods, serious once more. "What a handsome fellow you will be with a clean shave."
"Mmhm!" Sherlock agrees, and diligently goes back to his task.
"John, dear. I wanted to let you know there's someone at the door to see you," Mrs. Hudson says, her eyes pinching in that way of hers when she's fretting about something but doesn't want to let on.
John's face darkens. "Who?"
"Some woman. Very business-like. She says she's here on behalf of," she lowers her voice, glancing at Sherlock whose bent over the basin, swirling the knife through the cloudy water, "Protective Services."
John straightens his spine, alert. "Can you—?"
"I'll put the kettle on, dear," Mrs. Hudson says, bustling out to make herself useful.
Sherlock looks up at him with a puzzled frown. John takes a moment to centre himself, and wipes the remnants of foam off his face. He nods once, and lifts Sherlock into his arms.
Battle stations.
-oOo-
Catherine Lafemm sits in the leather chair across from John, sipping her tea with a leonine poise that belies her delicate exterior. Her crimson lips form a smile that would be winsome were it not for her sharp eyes, pale and cold like two chips of ice. She observes Sherlock seated on John's lap as he idly plays with his plaster skull, those intense eyes just a little too...interested for John's comfort. He shifts, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around Sherlock's waist.
"So, er," John clears his throat in the silence, both relieved and uneasy in turns when her gaze lights on him. "Sorry, but I wasn't expecting a visit. Our social worker was only in touch a few days ago, and it's not like her not to mention something like this."
Ms. Lafemm sets her cup and saucer down on the small side table. "That's because this visit wasn't planned, Dr. Watson. I am here following up on an official complaint made by a...concerned party."
Concerned party my arse, John thinks, attempting to tamp down his festering anger when the pieces fall into place. Damn bloody Mycroft Holmes.
"Isn't it a conflict of interest and a waste of resources to follow up on a maligned complaint made by the opposing party in the midst of a custody battle?" John says with polite, belittling logic.
Ms. Lafemm simply smiles a disarming smile that doesn't fool John for a second. "You believe this complaint about the child's welfare is unfounded," she says. It's not a question.
"I know it's unfounded. And so do you if you bothered to pay attention while you were poking around," John says unable to prevent some of his ire from spilling over. She raises a cool eyebrow at this.
"Careful, Doctor. I would hate to put down that you were obstinate and uncooperative in my report."
"What you call obstinate, I call protective," John volleys. "I know you are just doing your job, but no matter how diplomatically you phrase it, someone is actively threatening me and my child."
She levels a snapping glare at him, cold and bright like a glacier, and for a second John is alarmed at its fierceness. Before he can dwell on it however, the dangerous look in her eye melts away so fast John wonders if it was merely a trick of the light. After a beat, she inclines her head and gives a placid, little half-smirk.
She smooths an invisible crease in her impeccable white skirt, and turns her attention back to Sherlock for a moment. "Regardless. I mean to conduct a thorough investigation."
"Well, can you at least tell me who complained?"
"Afraid not."
"Of course you can't," John grumbles. He runs his fingers through Sherlock's curls in a nervous habit borne from his agitation, and ponders just how bad the backlash would be if he were to forcibly eject this condescending 'liaison' from protective services out onto the street.
Ms. Lafemm gives John another sharp smile as if she knows exactly what he is thinking, her gaze once more filled with scalding ice.
"Sherlock," she says after an uncomfortable pause. Sherlock looks up at her warily through his fringe. "Would it be all right if we talk? Maybe you can show me your room, and some of your toys. Does that sound okay?"
Sherlock turns to John, his little brow puckered with uncertainty. "It's all right. I'll be right down here the whole time if you need anything," John assures him, and helps him slide off his lap.
Blushing shyly and clutching his skull to his chest, Sherlock approaches Ms. Lafemm on meek stocking feet.
John watches with a careful eye and proverbial teeth bared as Ms. Lafemm gently takes hold of one of Sherlock's hands.
"Hello, Sherlock," she says, the sharpness of her person softening along with her voice.
"H'lo," Sherlock murmurs.
"Who's your...friend?"
Sherlock clutches the skull tighter. "This is John."
Ms. Lafemm darts John a mildly alarmed glance, and John feels a flicker of anxiety for what this might look like written down on paper. Little boy, possibly disturbed, talks to skulls named after foster-father. John swallows around the sudden dryness in his throat, but maintains his nonchalant air as if, naturally, a plaster skull is the perfect choice for a child's teddy. Not dubious at all, no sir.
"Do you like living here?" Ms. Lafemm moves on, swinging Sherlock's arm a little. Sherlock blushes even more, and nods his head. "What's your favourite thing about living here?"
"John."
"Your…?"
Sherlock shakes his head setting the skull down on the table next to Ms. Lafemm's tea cup. "No. John John. My papa," he clarifies with a bright smile. John can't suppress the small grin that escapes. A tension he'd been holding releases, his shoulders relaxing from their battle-ready tautness, and he eases back in his chair.
"You like your John?" Lafemm says, her voice low and almost...sad.
"Very much. He's a doctor, and he saved me from a bad man, and Harry and Miss Clara say even though he doesn't have much, he has a lot to give, and surely the karts will see that. Are you from the karts?"
"The courts?" Lafemm says, smiling. She looks up at John, and John feels his face flush before he looks away. Trust his sister to talk about things in front of Sherlock, the amazing regurgitating sponge. God forbid he comes off as having coached Sherlock in some way. Lafemm doesn't look suspicious though. More thoughtful than anything, and John can't tell if that's a good or bad thing. "I am, sort of," she says, drawing Sherlock a little closer.
"Oh."
Ms. Lafemm tucks a wayward curl behind his ear. "Why don't you show me where you sleep. A big boy like you must have a wonderful room full of all sorts of wonderful things."
Sherlock gives her a sunny smile in agreement, and tugs at her hand, leading the way towards the stairs.
John refrains from following them, and for the next fifteen or so minutes, attacks the dishes in the sink.
While it is true that his attorney, Clara, was building a solid case of guardianship for him, John knows that one dubious report or concern about Sherlock's well-being could topple the rather delicate house of cards they were playing with. It's why John has been working so hard to get his life in order so that in the event something like this does come up, he's kept his nose clean to the point no judge could find fault with him.
He knows he's crossed every t and dotted each i, however, it doesn't ease his worry over what Ms. Lafemm's report will reflect. He nearly breaks a plate in half from his anger at Mycroft Holmes in that moment. Damn him and his constant meddling.
Before John can take he temper out on the innocent crockery, a pair of footsteps bounding gaily down the steps alerts John of Sherlock's presence moments before he comes careening around the corner.
"John!" he exclaims, crashing into John's knees.
"Hey there, bug! Have a nice chat with the nice lady?" he asks, swinging Sherlock up to perch on his hip. Said 'nice lady' enters the kitchen a minute later with her legal pad in hand, and curiously, Sherlock's ever present bumblebee tucked under an elbow. Her red lips bloom like a rose when she smiles at him, and John is taken aback at how much it seems to thaw her icy exterior.
Sherlock ducks his head, cheeks going a little rosy in his shyness. John tries to catch his eye, intensely curious about what went on up there, but Sherlock only grins a little, and wraps his arms around John's neck.
"I think I have all I need," Ms. Lafemm says, tucking her papers into the slim briefcase she brought with her. She looks down at the bumblebee in her hands for a moment before handing it off to its rightful owner.
"Oh, er. Let me walk you out," John says as Sherlock hugs the bee to his chest.
She smiles holding up a hand. "That's quite all right. I will see myself out. Nice to have met you Dr. Watson; Sherlock."
"Wish I could say the same but, you know," John says flatly, hitching Sherlock higher. In the intervening months, Sherlock has finally managed to put on a little weight, slowly but surely catching up to his percentile. It is encouraging, however, not so much for John's shoulder.
"Indeed," she says, lips pursing as she looks at Sherlock with those luminous eyes. John clears his throat and she shifts her gaze. "You'll be hearing from me...one way or another."
She pulls on her pristine white trench coat, and without another word finds her way down the stairs. John doesn't relax until he hears the street door close, however.
"Now then," he says, turning to Sherlock. "How about some lunch?"
-oOo-
Not far from Baker Street, a nondescript black car with fake number plates pulls up behind a narrow alley.
A woman shakes out her dark hair from its tight chignon, turns her coat inside out, and tosses a plain camera phone into a skip.
The car door opens, and she slips inside.
"You were right," she tells her companion with a wicked smirk. "He thinks it was Mycroft."
Her eyes sparkle, and the two of them share in a laugh as the car drives away.
The camera phone buzzes weakly at the bottom of the skip, moisture from the rain and an upended can of cola causing a short in the battery.
A text message appears on the screen before it fades to black...
Number Blocked – 11:46 AM
I know what you took. And when I find you I will skin you and make you into shoes.
M