For sweetmarly: slowly getting there. . . .
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He settled himself on a park bench to watch two Watson boys play with a dog under a shining June sky. Sherlock had, in purchasing the Irish setter, prognosticated the pleasure of seeing little Ian interact with the animal. He had also, selfishly, anticipated the satisfaction of having a canine companion in his flat. What he had not foreseen was that he was also bringing joy into the life of his former flatmate, who had longed for a pet as a child but had never been allowed to own one.
Gladstone was smiling as only a dog can smile, tongue lolling sideways from his wide mouth, and was wagging his entire body when he was not prancing about with joyous abandon. Nine months old now, the setter had reached his full height, if not his full weight, all gangly limbs and plumy tail. He could look his little owner in the eyes now, if he could stand still long enough to do so.
"Sit!" John cried sternly, and Gladstone sat for three-quarters of a second before dancing to his feet again in excitement.
"Good boy!" Ian exclaimed, and offered the animal a treat. Father and son put the setter through his paces patiently, as they had been doing daily for several weeks: sit, stay, lie down, come. The intelligent Gladstone was a quick study and was eager to please, hard as it was for him to be still.
At last the three approached Sherlock's bench and collapsed, dog and child on the ground and soldier on the seat, all smiles. "Well done," Sherlock commended them. He had also been teaching Gladstone, in the privacy of the flat: such useful things as sniffing out blood traces and fetching hidden body parts. The dog had a good nose.
"My birfday's next week," Ian informed them, not for the first time.
"Well, then," his uncle acknowledged, "at Christmas you wished for a dog and for Aunt Molly to not be sad, two quite large orders, and you attained both your wishes. What would you imagine a good birthday present to be?"
Ian frowned. "I not say," he replied cryptically.
John reached down and ruffled the boy's blond hair. "We can't shop for it if we don't know what we're looking for, now, can we?" he encouraged.
The child sighed. "I not meant to know," he hedged. "You said, 'not tell Ian.' Mum said not, too."
"Ah," John's eyebrow lifted wisely. "You heard us talking about a secret, did you?"
"Aunt M'y havin' a baby!" Ian burst out as if he couldn't hold the news in for another second.
"Is she, now?" Sherlock smirked. He'd guessed as much at the wedding six weeks earlier—he'd noticed that Molly exhibited all of the 'signs of three'. However, when he mentioned this to Mary, she had strongly indicated that he ought to keep his observations to himself. Her precise words to this effect were, "Shut it, Sherlock. I mean it. Let them tell the news themselves in their own good time." Molly and Greg had taken an extended six-week honeymoon and had only returned the day before; apparently they had decided to confide in the Watsons without a moment's further delay.
"Why not tell me, Dad?" Ian asked anxiously. "Why, Dad, why? Is it bad news?"
John picked the boy up and cuddled him close. "No, it's very happy news!" he assured his son. "We just thought it might seem a very long time for you to wait."
"By my calculations, the baby will be born in October," Sherlock informed them helpfully. John shot him a sharp look, then nodded.
"So we'll have a new baby to play with before Bonfire Night," John said cheerfully. "Won't that be fun?"
"No!" Ian cried. "I not want Aunt M'y to have a baby! She's MY Aunt M'y! Papa Gweg's MY papa! That's what I want for my birfday—to not have a baby!"
"Ah, I see," John hugged Ian close and kissed his head. "Can you tell me why you don't want a new baby in the family?" He and Sherlock exchanged an understanding look.
Ian wiggled a bit on his father's lap, uncomfortable with his thoughts. "If they get a new baby, they won't need me anymore," he explained at last.
"Think you're being replaced, do you?" John voiced the child's concern for him, and Ian nodded miserably. "Tell me something, Ian: whom do you love best in all the world?"
"Gladstone!" the boy replied without hesitation, eliciting chuckles from both adults.
"Right," John smirked. "Let me rephrase the question. What HUMAN do you love best in the world?"
Ian's eyes grew wide as he looked from his beloved father to his beloved uncle and back, chewing his lip.
"It isn't a trick question, love; whatever you answer is fine," John assured him gently. The child's little face screwed up in an agony of intense thought.
"I can't choose! I love you and Mum and Uncle Sh'ock and Gran and Aunt M'y and Papa Gweg ALL the most!"
"Quite right!" his father approved. "And how many people is that?"
The boy counted them out on his fingers, whispering the names to himself. "Six."
"Hmm. Six people! That's quite a lot of people to love all at the same time, isn't it? Maybe you ought to try not loving one or two of us, don't you think?"
"I can't!" Ian cried. "I not want to try!"
John smiled tenderly and hugged his son to his chest. "Of course you don't. You have a big, big heart full of love, and you can fit far more than six people into it. And guess what? Molly has a big heart, too. And Greg has a big heart. They can love a great many people all at once. Believe me, Ian, they won't change towards you a bit."
Gladstone, having sat still for far too long, picked that moment to notice a flock of pigeons several yards away and made a dash for them, jerking his lead from John's lax hand. An explosion of birds rose up before him, and the chase was on. The adults exchanged looks, each determined the other should go after the dog; but John soon gave in and set Ian on the ground, jogging off after the wayward animal and whistling shrilly.
Ian stood watching after them, looking small and lost. Sherlock picked the child up and set him in his lap. He looked after John and estimated that he had about fifteen minutes in which to bare his soul to his nephew in privacy. "You know, Ian, I once felt the same way you are feeling."
"Weally?" Ian looked sceptical.
"Oh, yes," Sherlock assured him. "You know that your Dad and I were once flatmates." Ian nodded. "Well, when your Dad and Mum first started dating, your Dad began spending less and less time at home with me. Worse, he starting losing interest in The Work."
"Nuh uh!" Ian cried, incredulous.
"Yes, I'm in earnest," his uncle insisted somberly. "Soon your Dad was spending as much time with your Mum as possible, and I began to feel I was losing my best friend and colleague to this strange woman."
Ian giggled at the idea of his Mum being a 'strange woman'. "But that silly, Uncle Sh'ock. You and Dad are best fwends for always."
"Quite right, we are," Sherlock smiled. "But at the time, I was . . . ." he searched for the right word. "Worried. I was worried that your Dad might not want to work with me anymore; that he would move away and I wouldn't see him again."
Ian stared up into his uncle's face, open-mouthed. "What happen?" he whispered in complete empathy.
"Well, I was . . . mistaken," Sherlock admitted. "I had failed to take two facts into consideration. The first one was that once your Dad and Mum settled into their relationship and the newness wore off, they would no longer feel the need to spend Every Waking Hour together. . . . not to mention the non-waking hours . . . . But I digress! Naturally, once your parents married, their interests broadened once again. In fact, their marriage worked in my favour, as your Dad was able to stop wasting his talents at the clinic and join me in The Work full time."
"Happy ever after!" Ian grinned sunnily. "What the second fack is?"
In the distance, they could see John with Gladstone on the lead, heading back to their bench. Sherlock knew his time was growing short. Fortunately, Gladstone was not quite up to walking to heel as of yet—he did so for several seconds at a time, then surged ahead of John in eagerness to reach his master. John had to stop every few feet to speak to the dog and start again.
Sherlock smiled fondly at his old flatmate. "I did not consider that I was not losing a friend, but gaining one. Your Mum is quite as useful in The Work as your Dad is, you see."
"Two best fwends!" Ian laughed. "You have two best fwends!"
"I do indeed," Sherlock said solemnly. "I am a most fortunate man. But my point is, Ian, you may find that this new baby will grow up into a good friend for you, too."
The boy looked thoughtfully at the ground. "Babies can't be fwends. They too little."
Sherlock thought, frowning, of those first few months of Ian's life. The mess! The noise! The sleepless nights! The constant dampness of one kind or other! "True. And when the baby is little, you will find that it will take up a great deal of Molly's and Greg's time and energy. It will seem to you for a few weeks or months that you have indeed lost them to the new baby. But that time will pass, and the baby will grow up fast. Before you know it, he or she will be old enough to do experiments on. Erm, with. For example, I charted your hand-eye coordination development daily for months—it was most enlightening. Babies can be fascinating creatures! They learn new things every day—you can almost SEE them thinking!"
This idea interested Ian. "We can teach the baby fings?"
John was getting nearer. Sherlock needed to wrap this up quickly! No need for his friend to know how nauseatingly sentimental a consulting detective can be. "Certainly. Babies need to learn; and teaching them things is fun!"
"We can teach him how to make essplosions!" Ian whispered, entranced, and Sherlock chuckled.
"Of course, it might be a 'her'," he reminded the child.
"Me and Gladstone want it to be a boy," Ian said, firmly sexist.
"You and Gladstone have no say in the matter," Sherlock chuckled. "But don't be too hasty in your prejudice against girls. Of the few intelligent, talented, and courageous people I know, most of them are women."
"It's good to see smiles on your faces," John said as he reached them at last. Gladstone put his front paws on Sherlock's knees and nuzzled Ian joyously.
"It okay if the baby's a girl," Ian informed him cheerfully.
"I'm sure she'll be gratified you think so," John grinned knowingly.
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Thanks to mrspencil, Fang's Fawn, and Wynsom for beta-ing and for invaluable dog-training advice.