Are you still doing prompts? If so could I please request little Sherlock and Jawn playing in the rain?

Sadie:

Mycroft stood in the back doorway of his home, overlooking the yard and watching as a pair of rough-and-tumble boys ran and squealed and jumped and splashed through the puddles made by the warm, steady rain.

Greg walked up behind him, and handed him a steaming mug. “Well, the hats were pointless,” he chuckled, taking a sip of his own.

Mycroft smirked. “Tends to happen when you stare directly up into the rain.”

“They’re going to be sicker’n dogs, Myc. And smell like them, too.”

“That’s a myth.”

“What? Wet dogs don’t smell?”

“Getting sick from the rain, you berk.”

“Oh. Really? Happened to me when I was a lad.”

“Then you had already been in contact with the virus. It wasn’t the rain.”

Greg grunted, then laughed out loud as a loud squeal and a chorus of “NO NO NO NO JAWN NO!” cut across the yard. “…Annnd there go the hats.”

“They were pointless, anyway–DO NOT THROW THE MUD, JAWN HAMISH!”

“That was a good shot, though, for a handful of muck.”

“It was. Don’t encourage it.”

“At least Sherlock didn’t have his mouth open. And there go the coats.”

“Should make for a cozy naptime. Did you get their blankets?”

“Every blanket in the house is accounted for and ready. The whole sitting room is one big squishy nest.”

“Lovely.”

There was another loud scuffle and a big shout of “GER’OFF ME!”, and the two mens’ attention shot back to the boys.

Greg was doubled over in loud, ugly laughter as Mycroft stepped forward and clapped his hands sharply; “Sherlock–Sherlock, NO-NO! Get off of him! Put that down!”

“Wh-what, what is that?!” Greg stuttered in bewteen belly laughs.

“That’s a worm. SHERLOCK, drop it!…NO, NOT ON HIM!”

Greg slumped down against the doorframe, clutching his belly and shaking. “O-oh, oh m-my God,” he wheezed.

“Stop laughing,” Mycroft said, though his own lips were twitching in an effort not to smile. “Don’t encourage this.”

A loud “EW, NO!” interrupted them.

“SHERLOCK!”