A/N: I decided to do a second chapter for this for my fourth prompt bingo square, 'wingfic'. This is a slightly different spin on that trope. John and Sherlock haven't spoken much yet because I'm still working out how much they should be able to say. Sherlock may be a genius, but he's also a two year old, after all. At the moment, I figure he's about at John's level, speaking wise.
It was, surprisingly, easier than anticipated to convince Sherlock and John to go with her.
Neither of them remembered anything, which thankfully meant that she wouldn't have to field questions about where their parents were (an especially tricky question in John's case as Anthea knew his parents were dead), or why she was taking care of them instead of their parents. Sherlock did ask who she was (and although she wouldn't tell anyone, she thought his lisp was adorable), and she told them both that she was their mother. Adoptive, of course, because not only did the two look nothing alike, they looked nothing like her, and even though they were toddlers, she wasn't putting anything past Holmesian intellect.
It had been two days since they changed, and so far things were going well. Mycroft sent her work to do while the children were napping or asleep, and thus far they hadn't caused too much trouble. John's bedroom had been transformed into a bedroom for both boys, as they wanted to stay together, and Anthea took Sherlock's room. The skull had been taken off of the mantle and was now sitting on the dresser in Sherlock and John's shared bedroom, as Sherlock said it helped him think. Anthea had heard him talking to it last night after John was asleep (another thing which she would deny she found adorable).
Now, the boys were playing in their room while she worked on a particularly tricky problem for Mycroft. No one could plan when a crisis occurred, of course, so she had bargained with the boys that if they played quietly for two hours, she would take them to the park. That had been an hour ago, and so far they were doing well. She had nearly resolved the complications and was in the middle of emailing her solutions to Mycroft when she heard a loud thump from upstairs, as though two small bodies had landed on the floor, followed by childish giggles. Frowning, she went up to investigate.
"Are you sure?" John asked, looking over at his new friend (his new brother?) curiously. It sounded like a good idea, but he wasn't sure if it would work.
"Uh huh," Sherlock replied, adjusting his wings. "We even used feathers from the pillows!" Their new mother likely wouldn't be too pleased about that, but they could worry about that later. Their wings had needed feathers, otherwise it would have just been cardboard. He and John had found glue in one of the boxes in the closet (which was where the cardboard had come from), as well as markers. Sherlock's 'wings' were black with blue near the tips, while John's 'wings' were yellow.
It had been John's idea to make wings out of the cardboard box, but Sherlock was the one who used the scissors to cut open the pillow and glue the feathers onto the cardboard wings. "Birds need feathers on their wings," he pointed out. John couldn't argue with that, and so they spent the better part of an hour cutting out the wings and gluing on the feathers. Both boys were nearly certain that Anthea didn't know the scissors and glue were in the closet, otherwise she would have likely put them up so they couldn't get to them, so they kept looking at the door at first. Still, when ten minutes passed without their guardian coming to scold them, they decided that they were safe and set to work with renewed vigor.
The end result was the pair of them standing on top of the bunk bed (Sherlock had wanted the top bunk and John hadn't minded), their wings strapped to their arms with strings. The box had originally been where the adult John had stored odds and ends, although neither toddler knew that, so they had been able to find plenty of things for their project.
"On three?" John asked, Sherlock nodding. "We gonna fly?" That had Sherlock shrugging, because he didn't know if they would or not, but it was going to be fun finding out. John seemed to consider that a sufficient answer though. "One. Two. THREE!"
On three, both boys jumped off of the bed, flapping their 'wings' madly as they fell to the floor. They landed in a heap on the remains of the pillow, and despite the fact that they were bruise from their fall, both boys looked at each other and started to giggle.
Neither noticed at first that Anthea had arrived, and for her part Anthea was trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
"Sherlock, John, what on Earth have you been doing?" she asked finally, arms crossed over her chest. She was slightly amused at the sight, the pair of them wearing cardboard wings with feathers glued to them kneeling amid the mess they'd made of their room, giggling like…well, like children. She had taken a picture to keep (and to show them once they were adults again), but now she needed to be serious. They could have been hurt, although luckily it seemed that both boys had escaped much damage.
John and Sherlock stopped giggling immediately, looking up at her with wide eyes. They scrambled to their feet, tripping over each other to try to explain. Anthea just shook her head, sighing lightly. She should have checked what was in that closet better, then they wouldn't have had the scissors, glue, markers, or string. Still, they should have known better.
"You two are going to help me clean this up," she said sternly, both pairs of eyes dropping. "Then you are going to apologize to Mrs. Hudson for ruining one of her pillows." She knew that the elderly landlady wouldn't mind (and God knows that the adult Sherlock had caused much more damage to the flat in his time), but the point remained.
"The park?" Sherlock asked, looking up wide eyed. Anthea didn't look too mad, but she had asked them to be quiet while she worked if they wanted to go to the park. They had made noise and interrupted her work, so would she keep them home?
Anthea sighed, looking down at the two. They looked like they knew they had done something wrong, and she doubted they would do it again anytime soon (although they would likely think up something else. She didn't doubt that). "We're still going to the park. You have to help me clean up and apologize to Mrs. Hudson. Then I have work to finish, and if you two are quiet while I finish my work, then we can go."
Later that night, once both boys were safely in bed, she would send the picture to Mycroft. She smiled as she looked at it, the small dark haired toddler sitting beside his small blonde friend, both giggling madly over their 'experiment' with flight. Some things never changed, she mused. Adults or children, John and Sherlock would always get into mischief together.