Sadie: That’s a very good point. John would fight tooth and nail to keep that ‘tough guy’ exterior up around Mycroft…his is not a baby, should anyone need to be reminded. But, Sherlock *does* look awfully content to sit in his older brother’s lap. And Mycroft, while still being his normal stuffy, proper self, doesn’t sound as nearly condescending as he usually does. And John is starting to feel a bit left out.
“Perfect.” Mycroft rolled up his sleeves and began to rummage through the cupboards for ingredients. A bottle of paracetamol rolled out from behind a jar of tomato sauce and bounced off the counter and onto the floor.
“Thank god. Sherlock, please pick that up for me?” Mycroft put two pots on the stove top and started the sauce. One didn’t get a reputation for being chubby without knowing how to cook.
Sherlock patted Jawn’s shoulder before crawling under the table to retrieve the bottle of pills. Jawn stared, wide eyed, at sherlock’s rump wiggling beneath the table. One thumb was in his mouth and his other hand was rubbing his sore bum.
“Jawn.”
The little doctor startled and looked up.
“Can you fetch the salad from the fridge?” Mycroft smiled into the pot as the little doctor moved to obey. While he dearly loved their boisterousness, he definitely could get used to this.
“Myc!” Sherlock shook the bottle of medication in front on Mycroft’s nose. Well, sort of used to this.
“Yes, good boy. Can you, very carefully, get Myc a glass for water?”
Sadie:
Sherlock blinked up at him, wide-eyed and attentive. “Cup?” he asked, nodding, and scurried off to another cabinet. “Cup! Cup, cup, cup, cup…” he chanted and, opening the one that contained all of their sippy-cups and bottles, selected one for Mycroft and brought it back “Cup!” He held it up proudly.
Mycroft gave him a tight smile, and took it anyway. Well, he did ask him. And all things considering, he was better off handling plastic in any case. He tapped the spoon he was using to stir against the pot, knocking off any extra sauce, then set it aside. “Good boy, thank you,” he said, taking the cup and turning towards the sink to fill it. “Now, can you be a love and pick out bibs for yourself and Jawn?” Best to keep them busy until it was time to sit down and eat. Sherlock scampered off, pleased enough to be helping, and Mycroft popped the plastic cap on the pills. “Jawn,” he said, shaking out two pills and tossing them back into his mouth. “Did you get the salad?”
No answer.
‘Damnit.’ He took a mouthful of cold water and swallowed. “Jawn.”
No answer. And Sherlock was giggling.
“Jawn…” Mycroft took around, expecting the worst…and saw Jawn sitting on the floor, fridge door wide open, and eating the slices of carrot from the bag of pre-mixed salad. Okay, not the worst. He put his hands on his hips and stared down at the worried-looking little boy; “…I thought you said you weren’t hungry, you little thief. Get out of Mr. McGregor’s garden!” he said, and playfully snatched the bag from him.
“G’eg garden?” Greg asked, munching his last pilfered carrot.
“Mr. McGregor. You’ve never read petter rabbit?” Mycroft frowned as he put on a pot of water to boil.
“G’eg a’ My’coff garden is nice.” Sherlock hunkered down in front of Jawn and showed him the bibs he’d picked out. “Pick, Jawn.”
The little Doctor looked seriously between them before shyly selecting one covered in tiny bunnies. “Y’abbit ina garden, Sher’yock.” Jawn tipped his head and smiled at Sherlock through his lashes, hamming for all he was worth. Sherlock rolled his eyes but tied the bib on him.
“I put on Jawn’s bib” Sherlock announced, hopping up to stand next to Mycroft.
“Thank you. Can you put on your own?”
“I can help,” Sherlock looked around quickly for something to do, “plates!”
“No.” Mycroft caught his arm and tugged him away from the cupboard full of glassware.
“I’m helping.” Sherlock peeped innocently, staring wide eyed at Mycroft.
“You can help by putting on your bib.”
Sadie:
“But I–”
“You are being extremely helpful, yes, and you can keep helping…after you put your bib on, please.”
There was something in the way that his older brother had said ‘please’ that made Sherlock look away from him, down to where he still held his arm in a firm, but not painful grip. Then he glanced over at Jawn who, while having almost completely calmed down, was still ruddy-cheeked and raspy.
Sherlock looked up and met Mycroft’s gaze again, and nodded. “ ‘kay,” he agreed.
“Good boy,” Mycroft replied, releasing his grip. “Put your bib on, and I’ll let you set yours’ and Jawns’ places, yes?”
“My’coff eat?”
“Yes, I plan on eating,” he said, turning back to the simmering pots. “But I can take care of my plate.”
Sherlock thought about this for a moment while he chewed on the knuckle of his thumb, and realised that these were probably the only choices he was going to get…at least if he wanted to keep helping. “ ‘kay,” he said again, brightly. “I do it! See, My’coff?!” He picked up the second bib (which he’d known Jawn wouldn’t pick, as he wasn’t as fond of Winnie the Pooh as the little detective was) and tore the velcro tabs apart, putting it around his neck. “See?!”
“Yes, I see, wonderful job,” Mycroft said without turning around, and poured the box of mini-farfalle into the boiling water. Some things never changed…including his brothers’ need to be praised. Oh, well…he was more than glad to indulge him.
Sherlock beamed, rocking on his toes.
“Sherlock and Jawn need plates for little boys. Can you get two little boy plates?” Mycroft asked, glancing at his little brother with an encouraging smile.
“Plates! Jawn wants a plate and I want a plate, and we can have pasta’s on our plate.” Sherlock singsonged as he pulled open a different cupboard and began to riffle through plastic dinnerware.
“G’een, Sher’yock?” Jawn peeped. He’d scooted his bum across the floor and was half in the sitting room, playing with an action figure he’d found wedged behind his chair.
“A’course, Jawn.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, the word ‘obvious’ heavily implied. “Turtles or f’wogs?”
The arm of his action figure drifted into his mouth as he thought about it, mouthing the words around the plastic. “F’wog.”
“Please.” Mycroft prompted, draining the pasta in the sink.
“P’ease, f’wogs. ‘Fank you.”
“Jawn gots good manners!” Sherlock took down a plate covered in bees for himself and surreptitiously pulled down a plate covered in cupcakes for his My’coff. He put the plates on the table and moved to the drawer they kept the flatware. “Jawn needs baby fork, but I can have a big boy fork?”
Sadie:
“No, you’ll be getting–YOU’LL BE USING A LITTLE FORK, AS WELL,” Mycroft finished, having to raise his voice over the protests of “I DON’T!” and “NOT A BABY!” from the little doctor. “Jawn, shush!”
Jawn quieted, but glared up at Sherlock all the same. “You a baby,” he grumbled, crossing his arms.
“You’re both babies.” Mycroft stepped in before his little brother could respond and took the silverware from him. “You, go wash your hands,” he said as he placed them, then stopped short at the brightly-coloured confectionery plate that had been set aside for him. Mycroft gave Sherlock a dry look; “Hardy-har-har.”
Sherlock giggled and bounced over to the sink, thankfully unbothered that his job had been taken from him. “No want cake?” he asked, feigning innocence.
“Very clever, little boy.” Mycroft traded it for an adult-sized one, as well as an adult-sized fork, and set his place again before taking the figure Jawn was gnawing on from him. Ignoring the indignant squawk, he lifted the little doctor from the floor and nudged him over to the sink, too. “Let Sherlock help you wash up,” he said, giving his still-warm bum a friendly pat as a ‘reminder’, before going to fill their plates.
Hopefully, serving them sauce wouldn’t come back to bite him in the arse this evening.
“Jawn, Jawn, Jawn! Soap ona hands.” Sherock singsonged as he helped Jawn wash his hands. “Scrub, scrub, scrub. All c’ean, Jawn.”
Jawn gave him a filthy look and pulled his hands away before Sherlock could use the dish sponge on him.
“Come along, boys. It’s dinner time.” Mycroft sat himself at the middle place setting, scooping a bite of pasta into his mouth. He’d like to eat at least part of his meal while it was still warm, thank you very much.
Sherlock thundered over the to the table and threw himself into his seat, still eagar to please. “I’m sitting, My’coff.”
“Very good, Sherlock. Eat your dinner.”
Sherlock made a face at his plate. “I don’ wan’ it.”
“Jawn, come sit near me lad. Your frogs are waiting.” Jawn guiltily rushed to put his action figure behind his back.
“That’s fine, Jawn. Bring along your toy.”
“Na’ a toy, is GI Joe!”
“I can have toast, My’coff?” Sherlock pushed the rigatoni around his plate in large circles.
“You asked for pasta.”
“He thinks s’getti’o’s is pasta.” Jawn plopped his bum in his chair, carefully settling GI Joe next to his plate.
Sadie:
“This is better than anything you’ll find in a can,” Mycroft replied, taking another bite of his own.
Sherlock’s pout deepened, and he shook his head.
“Well, Sherlock’s going to sit there until–” There was a tugging at his sleeve, pulling the bite of food away from his waiting mouth. “Yes, Jawn?”
“Can’t do it, My’coff,” Jawn said, looking at him with big eyes and holding up his fork.
“You can’t do what, eat?”
Jawn shook his head.
“I find that a bit hard to believe, lad. You have a working mouth, don’t you?”
Jawn furrowed his brow, puzzled, and put his fork to his mouth.
“See, it works. Now eat, please.” Mycroft turned to his younger brother, who was sticking his fingers directly into his sauce, then licking them off. “That tastes better on the pasta, you know.”
Jawn huffed his chest like an indignant hen. “NO, My’coff!” he insisted. “See?!” He tried to spear one of the noodles with his little fork, and managed to get it halfway to his mouth before it fell off and landed back on his plate with a soft ‘splat’.
Mycroft, who had started to scold Jawn about using his inside voice again, stopped mid-sentence. “Try again, lad…press harder this time.”
Jawn did, pressing so hard that Mycroft was afraid he was going to crack his plate in half (what’s one more emotional meltdown on a day like today?), but the results were the same. The prongs on the ‘little’ forks weren’t long enough to stick through the thick pasta. Well, they were most certainly not getting adult forks. Mycroft was about to say one thing he’d never in a million years thought he’d ever say (again, on a day full of first-time-ever’s…): “Just use your fingers.”
This caused both boys to freeze, Sherlock gaping at him…especially since he’d just had his hand swatted for dipping it into his sauce.
Sadie & Mo's Boutique 