Sadie: Another one that’s been too long in the making.
You know what?…how about a sequel?
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3:45 am.
On a Tuesday.
John had gone to bed long ago. Hours.
Sherlock had declined. There was still the stack of paperwork for Greg left to be done, after having put it off for the better part of a week.
John was in no mood for an argument, and had left the man to his work on the promise that he would come to bed (and stay there for a good, solid eight hours) as soon as the ink was dry on the last page.
Sherlock had agreed. Even if it had seemed a little too easy.
Which is why, when he heard the door to their bedroom swing open and a pair of feet clad in thick socks (the grey woolen ones, from the sound of it) slowly made their way down the hall, he was already prepared for an argument. “I said I would come to bed when I was done,” he snapped. He would not let himself get knocked into his ‘little’ headspace this time.
What he had not been prepared for, though, was the sound of sniffling.
Sherlock turned around in his seat, frowning. “John…?”
John stood in the doorway to the kitchen, clad in a rumpled t-shirt that was two sizes too big (because it was more than likely one of Sherlock’s) and pajama bottoms, hair looking as if it hadn’t seen a comb in months, and while there were no tears evident on his face, they weren’t that far off. “John?…What’s the matter?” he asked again, only much, much softer this time.
John swallowed thickly, and it was obvious that he was trying desperately not to cry. “Can I…can I sit with you?” he whispered, his voice strained.
Sherlock had been wrong. This was not ‘John’ that he was talking to. He pushed his chair back from the table and held out his arms.
Jawn quickly crossed the room without another word and crawled onto Sherlock’s lap, straddling him, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders while burying his face in the crook of his neck.
Sherlock held onto him just as tightly. “Bad dreams?”
Jawn nodded.
Sherlock kissed the side of his head. “Can you tell me about them?”
Jawn shook his head.
“That’s okay.” Sherlock rubbed a hand up and down his little one’s back, and began to rock him back and forth. “We can just sit here.”
And so they did. They sat, and Sherlock rocked. And rocked. And rocked. Just when he thought Jawn had fallen asleep in his lap, the little man surprised him and moved to peek out from his place on the detective’s shoulder. “Hello there,” Sherlock said, smiling as he peered down at him.
Jawn didn’t respond, except to start sucking on the two middlemost fingers of his right hand.
Hm. It must have been a hell of a nightmare if it had Jawn sucking on his fingers. He was normally a 100% dummy-or-bust baby. “You know, a bottle would taste better.”
Jawn turned his gaze up at Sherlock.
“Can Da’ make you one?”
Jawn nodded, but didn’t move otherwise.
“That means I’ll have to get up.” Sherlock felt fingers at his back tighten their hold on his shirt. “You can come with me, you know.”
Ten minutes (and quite a lot of fussing and whimpering and accidental pinches from clutching fingers) later, Sherlock was back in his chair, Jawn was back in his lap, and things felt considerably better now that he had a warm bottle grasped in his hands, instead of Sherlock’s button-up.
Sherlock scooted his chair closer to the table, where he still had several sheets spread out. “Since you’re up, how about you make yourself useful and help Da’ with his papers,” he said teasingly, and kissed Jawn’s forehead.
Jawn nodded, and reached for a nearby highlighter.
“Ah, noooo.” Sherlock reached it first. “You’re the pointer, I’m the highlighter.”
Jawn huffed and attempted to act put-out, but all Sherlock had to do was poke his belly with the capped end of the marker, and the act fell apart. Jawn clutched his tummy and giggled.
Sherlock chuckled, as well…well, he’d gotten a smile and a laugh; as far as he was concerned, that was a success.
“Alright, start pointing, pointer.”
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