Every night Sherlock sleeps in his parents' room. He has an old-fashioned cot with wooden rail around it. It's like a miniature prison and it needs to be, for Sherlock's need to explore is growing by the day. Mummy tucks him in underneath the blankets at bedtime with me alongside. She brushes some of her long hair behind her ear before giving Sherlock a light kiss on the forehead.
"Night, night, Sherlock," she says softly before straightening up and flicking the mobile which hangs above us. It's a simple thing which Mycroft made for Sherlock a few weeks ago on a rainy day. It's got a mixture of everything – Mycroft's drawn a horse and stuck it onto some string, on another piece of string hangs a drawing of a pirate ship. In the centre hangs a picture of me; it's bigger than the other pictures on the mobile and surprisingly detailed. Sherlock watches the mobile as it spins a few times.
The light is switched off and we hear the rustling of blankets from the four-poster bed as Mummy slips in. Father isn't at home tonight because he's on a business trip to Ireland, so she has a lot of room to stretch her legs. She sighs in contentment and quickly falls asleep.
Sherlock is a completely different story.
The mobile above our heads slows to a stop. He grows restless and tries to crawl out from under the covers, but between being tucked in and having me beside him; he doesn't have much room to manoeuvre. He kicks his legs wildly and flaps his arms a bit, but the blanket sticks to my fur so it only loosens on his side. Using me for leverage, he rolls over onto his tummy and in the process only becomes more entangled in the blanket. But Sherlock is pretty clever, even at this age, and he's already worked out that if he crawls forwards from where he is now he should be free. He does this and much to his dismay the blanket sticks to his baby grow; it was washed recently and Sherlock only began wearing it today.
Sherlock's eyes go wide at this unexpected hindrance. His crawling has become stronger by now, so he turns around regardless and ends up on top of me. It's not the most comfortable of positions and I'm feeling a little squashed. He seems to agree and begins to crawl to the other end of the cot. I watch as he keeps crawling until he's forced to stop by his nose hitting a wooden bar on the edge of the cot. He screws up his nose and sits back on his bum and puts both of his hands on the bars. He reminds me of a caged animal. I can see what he wants, though – he is now at the end of the cot which is nearest to Mummy's current location. Unfortunately, I am powerless to help him in his daring escape.
He takes in the height of the cot's edges and comes to exactly the same conclusion as I: it's too tall and Sherlock's too small. And so, like every baby would do, he begins to cry. Loudly.
Mummy was previously in a well-deserved and deep sleep but at the sound of her baby crying she wakes up. Judging by the volume of my friend's cries half of England probably wakes up too. Mummy slips out of bed and comes over to us, before taking little Sherlock into her arms. He calms down and is content to poke at her arm. She glances at the clock, squinting to read it with just the moonlight to guide her.
"Less than fifteen minutes! I had less than fifteen minutes of sleep just then. Do you know what that does to Mummy, Sherlock?" she says. She doesn't wait for an answer. "I'll tell you what, little man – exhaustion!" Sherlock giggles as if he understands what she's saying. She laughs along with him. "Oh, you like the sound of that, do you?" She makes a face and says, "Exhaustion!" Sherlock giggles again.
"You'll get to learn all about that when you're," she yawns, "older." He wriggles and she holds him at arm's length. "But honestly, I know all about it." She gives him a peck on the cheek and sets him down beside me again. "Settle down now, Sherlock."
Sherlock does the exact opposite and immediately crawls over to the side of the cot. When that doesn't work, he begins to crawl around in circles. Mummy rolls her eyes in the dim light and picks him up again. She glances at her bed. "Every single parenting book tells me that I should not let you sleep in my bed… but that's never stopped me before." She smiles and picks me up around the waist and squeezes reassuringly. With Sherlock in one arm and me in the other, she has her hands full. She sets me down first and I lie on my back in the warm bed. Sherlock joins me a few seconds later and the whole bed dips when Mummy clambers in and lies on her side, facing us. The duvet is comfortably heavy as she pulls it up and over us. Sherlock stops wriggling when Mummy pulls him close.
It doesn't take them both long to fall asleep again. I have to admit that I am quite happy to watch them sleep, Sherlock safe in his mother's arms. It's a rare, quiet moment.
Minutes pass, then an hour. As a teddy bear, I am naturally patient. It is my job to simply be there with my friend. I wait on my friend, I listen to my friend's every word (even if at this stage the only word is 'mmmna') and I provide company in times of loneliness. The room is quiet, the only sounds to reach my ears those of breathing and a ticking clock.
At around midnight, I hear the door to Mummy's room open. The light footfalls of bare feet on a thick carpet give the person away to be Mycroft. Sure enough, he is at my side within a minute. He carefully slips in underneath the duvet and since no one's been cuddling me he holds me close and gives me a hug.
"I had a bad dream, Teddy," he whispers into my ear. "I can't sleep on my own…" His breathing evens out and I know that he too has fallen asleep.
The bed is crowded now, but I really don't mind. It's warm and cosy and Mycroft's breathing is making my ear flap back and forth.