*peeks around the corner shyly* Yeahhhhh…I’m that anon. I really have been trying to wait because I know you are busy. I only put it in so many times because I figure you get a billion asks like so many all the time that mine would get buried underneath all the others. Sorry for the trouble. 😅😅😅

Sadie: Not a problem at all, anon…oh, and we really don’t get that many messages here; we’re not popular. 😛

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Stay right here and pick up your toys, muffin. Greg’ll be back in a minute.”

Now, is there anywhere in that sentence, subtext or otherwise, that sounds like  “Please, overgrown toddler man-child, disappear while the person who’s supposed to be watching you goes for a quick wee in the five free minutes he has before getting dinner started.”

No, you say? Nothing like that at all?

Yeah, that’s what Greg had thought, too. So, needless to say, that when he came back out of the loo to find toys and lego’s and puzzle pieces still all over the floor and no little detective to be had picking them up, Greg had to stop and question himself if he’d actually said what he thought he’d said.

…And then came a clatter from the kitchen.

Dammit.

Greg quick-stepped to the kitchen in record time, but once he turned the corner, he froze.

Now, I ask you one more time…does “Stay right here and pick up your toys, muffin,” sound anything, anything like “Please go into the kitchen without me, turn on the stove, and then climb onto the counter directly next to the stove with your bare leg pants-shittingly close to the glowing hot eye”?!?

No? Still not the same?

That’s what Greg thought.

Seeing Sherlock’s nappied bum up on his knees on the counter, his bare calf within inches of the glowing red burner, Greg’s heart seized in his chest…and then he acted. He was across the room before he realised it himself and grabbed Sherlock ‘round the waist, then spun him off the cabinet before he could even cry out in surprise. 

It was only when Sherlock’s feet were safely on the floor, that Greg felt his heart start beating again…three times as fast as it was supposed to, mind, but at least it was still working. “What,” he wheezed, more than little out-of-breath after the marathon he’d just run, “were you doing?!”

Sherlock’a little surprised ‘o’ of a mouth split into a wide grin. “I was hel’bing!”

Greg just stared at him, mouth hanging open. “...What!?”

“Hel’bing ma’ge dinner!”

Greg was having a hard time processing this. Sure, he heard the words, he could see Sherlock saying them, but they just weren’t connecting or his synapses weren’t firing right or something, because this still wasn’t making any sense. “You are not–!” he stuttered, “You know you’re not…you are not to touch the stove!”

Sherlock’s face faltered. G’eg didn’t seem as pleased as he thought he’d be. “I wa’ss bein’ care’bul…”

“Not careful enough, little man!” Greg still had Sherlock by the shoulders, and now spun him around and landed two sharp swats in quick succession to the pair of chubby cheeks peeking out from the bottom of the little detective’s nappy.

Caught off guard, Sherlock did little more than gasp and go up on his toes, then stared at Greg, mouth hanging open in shock.

Greg could only stare back…Sherlock hadn’t been the only one taken by surprise. Greg was not the one to practice physical discipline with the boys…he usually left that to Mycroft.

So the fact that he was holding the baby, palm still poised for a smack, was not…it was not good; not to him.

Sherlock had been too surprised at first to react much, but now…well, now the sting was starting to set in. He stared at Greg, his breath coming in quick huffs as his eyes watered and vision blurred…

Then, while Greg could do nothing but watch, Sherlock’s face crumbled, and he began to cry.

Greg felt his heart crumble the same way. “Oh, muffin,” he sighed, and wrapped Sherlock in a tight hug. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Sherlock laid his head on Greg’s shoulder and wept. “S-ss-sss’aw-aw’rrrreeee,” he stammered.

Greg felt like crying, too. “C’mere, sweetheart. Come sit with Greg for a second,” he said, pulling away from Sherlock (which was hard enough, even if the baby hadn’t been clutching the back of his shirt) and leading him to one of the chairs around the table with an arm around his waist.

Greg sat down first, and guided Sherlock into his lap. The tyke leaned against him, still sniffling and rubbing his hand over his cheeks and nose.

Greg cuddled him close and kissed his temple. “I’m very sorry I spanked you,” he said, starting with that first and foremost. “I just got spooked.”

“S-spoo’ged?”

“Yeah…see, you were awfully close to burning yourself up there, and that scared Greg.”

Sherlock laid his head on Greg’s shoulder. “Bu’d I wa’ss care’bul…”

“Your leg was really, really close to getting burnt, muffin. Like, that close,” Greg added, holding his fingers less than an inch apart to show him.

Sherlock stuck his thumb in his mouth, and curled his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “Tha’ds c’yose,” he said.

“Too close,” Greg agreed, and started to rub Sherlock’s back. “That’s why Mycroft and I don’t let you around the oven when it’s on. We don’t want you getting hurt.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “…Span’gs hur’d,” he finally mumbled.

Despite himself, the corner of Greg’s mouth twitched up. “Yeah, and I apologized for that. But at least a spanking won’t cause third degree burns and a trip to the A&E.”

Sherlock only looked up at him, and raised his eyebrow.

Greg barked out a laugh. “Har-har, very funny,” he chuckled, and kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “Promise you won’t touch the oven again?”

Sherlock nuzzled into the crook of Greg’s neck. “Mm-hmm.”

“Good boy.” Greg stopped rubbing and patted the back of Sherlock’s nappy. “Would you still like to help with dinner?”

Sherlock sat up. “I c’ahn?”

“Sure. Just not around the oven.”

“Wha’d I do?”

“Well, first you’re gonna go pick up your toys, or Mycroft’s gonna spank the both of us.”

Sherlock giggled and wiped the last of his tears off his cheeks. ‘G’eg in t’ouble.”

“It’s not that funny. D’you want to help butter rolls?”

“Yeeeeeeeeeee’sh.”

“Alight, that’s your job. Roll-Butter’er. Right after Toy-Picker-Upper’er.”