A/N: I had a bit of an epiphany last week when I was working on my other stories...if Harry and Mycroft conceived a child together, but due to circumstances they entrusted the offspring to John and Sherlock, well, they would truly be raising a biological Holmes-Watson child. I really wish I had thought of that before I wrote this. Oh well, I can always re-do it.
Thank you to my...very interesting friends for giving me inspiration on Ryder's Christmas presents, unfortunately, I decided to go with a nod to Cabin Pressure, since I don't think Sherlock would invest in "the heart of a baby goat", a miniature trampoline, or a medieval sword.

Grounded

"IT'S CHRISTMAS!" The shrieks and cackles of the child echoed throughout the house, bouncing off the walls and slipping under the door into the room where John and Sherlock lay, huddled together not for warmth, but comfort for the other. John stirred restlessly, his being was awake, but his mind was not in the comprehension stage yet. He groaned loudly, raising his arms above his head, not wanting to put too much strain on his left shoulder, but he stretched anyway, feeling the tautness of his muscles, until he felt the welcome weak warmth that radiated from the used limbs. Sherlock hadn't peeped from his slumber, John was doubtful that he was still asleep, since he was completely silent, not even making enough noise to tell if he was breathing or not. That was a general indicator that Sherlock was indeed awake and conscious, keeping track of how much noise he made to not let John know he was up.

"Sherlock, your son's awake." John slumped back down onto the mattress, leaning over to give Sherlock a quick kiss on his lips. Dry and without passion, but a tender kiss to let Sherlock know that John was still there. The detective smiled, fully awake but his eyes were still closed, he didn't want John to win this easily. John turned over onto his side again, lifting his fingers to trace the sharp outline of his boyfriend's narrow face, his calloused fingers grazing along the short stubble that grew on his chin. It was relaxing, peaceful, and reminded them of the short night they had spent alone in the secluded hotel in Northern Wales. That is, until they heard the loud cries of their son piercing the silence, ringing in their ear drums.

"DAAAAAAD! CAN I OPEN MY PRESENTS?" Ryder yelled, the volume of his voice increased with every syllable, reminding John of the time him and Sherlock were at a pet store and Ryder had gotten his hands on a shock collar. Although a cruel decide used purely for the torment and harm to the canine that they are supposed to 'help', Sherlock had made a comment about how much quieter their flat would be if they had put one on their son. A tempting idea at the time, John told the detective, quite firmly, no.

"The sun hasn't even risen yet, I don't take responsibility until the sun is up." Sherlock yawned, bunching up the blankets closer to his chest, ridding John of the warmth of the cotton covers. The consulting detective was a father in a five year old child's body and personality, it was John's most and least favourite part about him.
"And during winter, that doesn't leave any time for you to be a responsible parent. Good job, Sherlock, you win the 'Father of the Year' award. Now hurry up, put on your house coat before Ryder gets anxious and sets the tree on fire from impatience."

"Okay, Ryder, we're here, you can open your presents." John sat down in his chair, rubbing his eyes from lack of sleep. It had been a late night from Ryder crawling into their room every half hour asking if Santa was coming yet, even after John repeatedly informing him that Santa never shows up until everyone is fully asleep. That did nothing to persuade the child to stop bothering his parents.
Sherlock joined John, sitting beside him on the floor, his legs crossed, facing the lit up fake tree that stood in the corner. They were stuck with the fake tree since Mrs. Hudson had told them off the bat, that real trees, not only very difficult to find in London, but were an extreme fire hazard that, in such close range to both the detective and his son, was a ready made meal of disaster waiting to happen.

Under the tree lay six presents. Two for Ryder; one from each father, two for John and two for Sherlock, this year, Ryder had gone out with Mycroft to pick out his own presents for his dads, and, as per tradition, Sherlock and John had exchanged gifts for the season too.
"If I get to, you have to open my gifts for you too!" Ryder nodded, passing his dads their gifts. They were in bags after Ryder had struggled to wrap them and absolutely refused any assistance from his uncle and everybody else. If he was unable to do it, nobody was and he would find a more simple solution. John smiled, allowing his son to shove the small bag into his hand, his face determined and stern but his eyes full of mirth and cheery attitude. Sherlock peered over the arm of the couch, curious now as to what Ryder bought him. He knew what his gift was, but the kid had been clever in keeping John's present a secret.

"Which one are you going to open, Ryder?" John asked, as the curly haired boy scanned the two boxes in front of him. One was a fairly regular sized square box, stout and had perfect symmetrical corners, and the other was much smaller, a thick rectangular shape. He chose the square box first, undoing the corners before ripping off the entire face of the wrapping paper. John, noticing his vigour and hurry, gave Sherlock a look that yelled 'I told you so'. As he had, Sherlock had made a bit of a fuss when John had brought him a cheap roll of wrapping paper from Tesco rather than one of the fancier rolls he had circled in a seasonal catalogue from Harrods. John's argument had been "It's just wrapping paper, he won't even notice it, he'll rip it off the box and it'll never be spoken of". He, as usual, was right about this sort of thing. The detective turned his head, pretending not the notice the narky grin, and be focused on his son as his eyes widened, holding the package tightly in his hands.

"A MODEL AEROPLANE?" He yelled excitedly, practically trembling with exuberant joy. He leapt up, tackling his curly haired father, knocking him backwards, his back hitting the carpet flooring with a muffled 'thump'. The shrieks and cries of the child was sure to wake anyone who was still asleep in the building, including Mrs. Hudson, who would take the opportunity to burst into their flat with a tray of Christmas cookies and hot cocoa. John calculated this in his head whilst Ryder had been busy showering Sherlock with thanks, even though it had been John who picked out the model aeroplane kit, noting how fascinated with them the boy had been, claiming he wanted to BE an aeroplane, or at the very least, an aeroplane captain.

"Thank your other dad for that too, he picked it out." Sherlock chuckled, hugging Ryder quickly before sitting up and walking over to John, hugging him too, all though not as enthusiastic, was still radiating with excitement. He loved the workings of aeroplanes, loved their form and their inner secrets, and John knew that.
"Thank you daddy and papa...now open your gifts!" He jumped up, clapping his hands, only hitting the box, since he seemed to refuse to put it down. John smiled, dropping his hand off the arm of the chair, Sherlock noticed, entwining their fingers together, using their one free hand to open the bags Ryder had given them. He looked at them, watching and observing, radiating a command over them. John finally got the tissue paper off his, lifting the lid, and his jaw dropped when he discovered the contents. Sherlock had staved off of opening his, since he already knew what it was, but he hadn't seen John's yet.

Letting go of John's hand, Sherlock propped himself up, peering into the box too, at the same time he felt embarrassed and yet amused.
"Umm...Ryder, who picked this out?" Sherlock asked, John fought off the urge to immediately call Mycroft and demand an explanation, but he didn't, for Sherlock's sake, who found this incredibly entertaining. Ryder rocked on the balls of his feet, his hands behind his back. He didn't truly understand the present himself, since he bought mostly what his uncle had told him.
"Uncle Mycroft picked it out, he said you two needed it." Oh, the innocence of a child. John shook his head, taking yet another look at the box before covering the lid and putting onto the side table beside his chair, trying to focus attention on the child, trying to get him to open another present before he remembered that Sherlock hadn't opened his yet, all though, given what John had in his bag, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what mysterious item lay in his partner's.

Sherlock pulled his cellphone out of his pocket, firing off his brother a Christmas morning text.

Where did you take my son to buy sexy lingerie?
Actually, how did you even convince him that was a good idea?
John will never wear those.
At least I'M getting laid.
-SH

Ryder had already opened his second gift-a pocket book edition of studies in physics and how it related to aeroplanes, a book he admittedly, couldn't understand too well, but he liked having the reference guide, and the pictures were labelled, well detained, and appeared on nearly every page. That was a gift from Sherlock, which he deemed to be of far more educational value than a wooden model of a plane. Ryder didn't see the value that way, he saw tools, he saw thoughtful presents, and he appreciated them.

Sherlock had been caught not opening his present, John feared for it, Sherlock had been calm, since he knew what to expect, and it was far less disturbing than the lacy undergarments that were packed into John's box. He pretended to be surprised when he pulled out the tie, in true father-son fashion. Feigning thanks, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Ryder, hugging him tightly, and kissing his cheeks. When he was let go, the boy turned to his parents, one who was sitting on a chair so he was higher than the rest of them, and the other who was resting his sharp elbows into his thighs, cross legged on the floor.

"Can I go read my book now?" Ryder asked, grabbed up all the wrapping paper he could find, heading over to the small waste paper bin by the work desk, dumping the trash into it before turning around to hear if he got permission to leave the family gathering.
"Yes, of course. Don't make a mess though. Have fun, Ryder." Sherlock waved him off. Before Ryder came into their lives, Christmas was never a big event for John or Sherlock. They got up like they did every other day, they made tea, they sat in their chairs, and John gave Sherlock his annual present. It wasn't until six years ago that John actually received one back, as Sherlock had said that Christmas had too much media popularity, and what they were actually celebrating was the Winter Solstice, when it was actually in July that the birth of Christ had occurred, and if John wanted to exchange presents, they should do it in the summer.

They were granted custody of Ryder the first week of December, six years ago. He was eight months old at the time, and unable to realise the difference of actually living with John and Sherlock, since the duo had been on permanent baby sitting duty since his mother had died when Ryder was four months old. That was the first year Sherlock gave John a gift, a small coffee mug with the words "World's Greatest Mother" on it. At the time it was a personal joke that the two shared, but even now as John sipped from that mug daily, he smiled looking at it, thinking of how things changed in their lives, thanks to the young child that they had responsibility over. They had been through tantrums and teething, and first words, potty training, first steps, feeding, night terrors, the flu, start of school, and everything every parent had been through. Sherlock had been very supportive in these steps, but it really was John who played mother figure, he was the one who attended the parent-teacher meetings, all though in Sherlock's defence, the detective really wasn't the right person to be doing that. That was another memory that made John feel nostalgic. When he had gotten a call at work to come immediately to the school, knowing that he had asked Sherlock to go, he was surprised when he got there, to see both his son and his boyfriend sitting in the corner of the room, backs facing the open space, both hunched over in the same position facing the wall, as the teacher had sent them both into 'time out', claiming that Sherlock was as argumentative and unruly as a child.

While he was delving into his thoughts and reminiscing about events in their lives, Sherlock had gotten off the floor, heading towards the kitchen to boil the kettle for a cup of tea. John had closed his eyes, and all though he was just thinking, Sherlock didn't want to bother him, since he knew he had avoided dealing with the conflicts the night before, even though he was well aware John wouldn't even dream of bringing that up, not on Christmas morning. Christmas had always been a Holiday for the doctor, and though Sherlock himself never engaged in the trivial activities until as of late, he was always amused at John's enthusiasm and good cheer around these times. He knew that the surgery was far busier, this was prime season for them, but he always came home in a good mood.

"Boys, are you up yet?" Mrs. Hudson entered to door, carrying a tray of biscuits and tarts and other such festive treats. John opened his eyes at the intrusion, their landlady was one of those people that entered before knocking, and on more then one occasion, had found herself with more than an eye full of suggestive positions and scenarios. That never dampened her attempts though.
"Ta, Mrs. Hudson, thank you. This is, this is quite nice, yes." John stood up, taking the heavy tray out of her frail hands, setting it down on the desk, before offering her to join them with a cup of tea. She accepted gratefully, John noticed she was wearing her good jewellery that she had always saved for special events, meaning John had only seen her wear them once or twice. Once when she had gone on holiday to visit her sister in Florida, and on Ryder's first birthday. To her, Ryder was her grandson, and nothing they ever said would persuade her otherwise. Well, not that they knew that, they never discouraged her from thinking that way, as being a grandmother meant she was a built-in babysitter in tight times.

"Is Ryder up yet?" She asked, crooning over the tree in the corner, examining all their ornaments. She had done that a number of times already, but she never tired of seeing the little decorations Ryder added, such as a plastic army figure wearing a cotton ball Santa hat, or the snowman with sunglasses and a beach umbrella. Little things like that were things she enjoyed, knowing full well that it was Ryder, her pseudo grandson, that demanded those be put on display.
"Yeah, he's gone off now to build model aeroplanes, do you want me to call him for you?" John asked, ready to call Ryder down at a moment's notice if he had to. In the back of his mind, he remembered that he and Sherlock had not yet exchanged gifts. 'Oh well' He thought, 'not something I'm willing to do in front of Mrs. Hudson'.

"Oh no, that's fine. I'm sure he'll be down soon enough anyway, he never stays in the same room for long." Mrs. Hudson chuckled, having babysat him enough times to know about his energy and attention level. John nodded in agreement, taking a cup of cocoa from the tray and sipping it slowly, it wasn't scorching hot and he knew it, Mrs. Hudson never made her drinks burning.
"So, Mrs. Hudson, what can we do you for?" Sherlock asked, coming back into the room to hug his beloved landlady and most entrusted friend next to John. The elderly lady hugged him back, she always treated the boys like her own children, she loved them so dearly.

"I just came by to wish you boys a Merry Christmas. I don't have anyone else to talk to during the holidays, and you two don't mind, do you?" She sat down in the chair opposite John, it was deemed Sherlock's chair, but he was busy tidying up the small amount of rubbish paper that had accumulated on his work desk, keeping himself distracted to prevent from going slightly crazy from being cooped up inside.
"Sherlock, are you feeling all right?" She asked, noticing his restlessness. The detective turned to her, his face showing no signs of worry or concern, he looked happy, proud, but he had the expression of a dog in need of a walk.

"He's fine, Mrs. Hudson, he's been home bound lately since there's been no cases that require him leaving the flat, and he got rest last night so he has all this pent up energy he can't spend until Boxing Day, since his brother is coming over later to spend time with Ryder." John said, yawning, and getting up to poke at the fire, his eyes grazing over the mantle piece littered in jolly cards and unlit candles, with little sprigs of ivy and holly. It was all a festive design decision made by their landlady. John appreciated the effort she put in to making their flat more cheerful, God knows Sherlock would ever fall for something like that.

They basked in the silence for mere moments until they heard the tell tale sign of a door opening upstairs that Ryder emerged from the room, now bored with his book and his model, seeking new entertainment, or at least an audience to tell what he had learnt in that short time frame. None of them looked in the direction of the stairs until they heard the small gasp, and the excited squeal, and the rapid padding of feet on the carpet, and Mrs. Hudson was tackled in a giant bear hug from the boy, who adored his makeshift Grandmother more than anything. He loved her almost as much as he loved his uncle, or fathers.

"Hello my boy, did you like your presents?" The older lady asked, pulling Ryder closer, his head resting on her shoulder. John felt his chest swell, he loved seeing how loved Ryder was in their lives, how supportive everyone was. Sherlock noticed, coming up to stand behind his partner in the chair, leaning forward so he was hung over the back of his, arms crossed over the top as his chest rested on top of them.
"Yes Grandma Hudson, I got a model aeroplane! I can build it myself, but I haven't started yet." He said, loving the attention he got as a single child on Christmas.

The scene was the epitome of peace, John in his chair, Sherlock hovered lovingly over him, Ryder snuggled with Mrs. Hudson, the tree was lit and fire was dancing, their shadows stretched over to the far wall. John thought absently that this photo was what everyone looked at on generic Christmas cards, of families, no bickering, no complaining, no arguments, no naughty words, just utter serenity. Even Sherlock had stopped bouncing around to enjoy it.

Until they heard the knock at the door.

"Merry Christmas, dear brother."

Mycroft...

A/N: This chapter took a bit, but should be updated again by next week...? Thanks for sticking out with me guys!