Bubbles

Sadie:

For a request made by a certain Birthday Girl! @silly-little-daisy Happy Birthday!

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“No peeking!”

Sherlock giggled; “ ‘m no’d pee’ging!”

“I saw you peeking!” Mycroft scolded playfully. He readjusted his hands over his little brother’s eyes as he stood behind him. “Now walk forward, slowly.”

Sherlock reached up and covered Mycroft’s hands with his own. “Bu’d I cannah see, My’coff!”

“That’s the point.” Mycroft nudged the tiny detective forward, directing him towards the door that led to the backyard. “This way.”

“Where goin’?!?”

“You’ll see.”

“Bu’d I don’ see!!!!”

“I meant that you’ll see when we get there–wait, wait, pick up your feet before you trip, there, step over that…no, I’ve got you, it’s alright. Annnnd–” Mycroft waited until Sherlock made it over the raised threshold (all while making sure he didn’t trip) to lower his hands; “–Surprise!”

Sherlock blinked at the sudden flood of sunshine in his face, waiting for his eyes to adjust…and when they did, and he finally saw what the big surprise actually was, he gasped out loud:

“Bubb’as!!!”

Even Mycroft laughed as Sherlock made a toddling beeline straight for John and Gregory, who were waiting across the yard with big, doofy grins on their face.

And there, laying on the grass at their feet, was a massive, picnic-style blanket laden with three large, gallon-sized bottles of bubble solution, two dozen (that’s right, two dozen) smaller bottles and tubes in all different colours, and a basket full of different bubble-blowing toys.

Sherlock had been begging, for months, to go back outside and ‘play bubbles’ (except in his own charming little words, it had been ‘p’yay bubb’as’) ever since last Summer had ended and the cooler Autumn weather had moved in. So he, Gregory, and John had been planning and waiting for the first warm day of the year to make the little tyke’s wish come true.

And here they were, the first day warm enough to let Sherlock out in nothing but a nappy and a smile, with all the bubble’s he could ever want, for as long as he wanted, to his heart’s content.

Mycroft started across the yard and caught up to them just as Sherlock was deciding what to play with first; he reached for a brightly colored toy that looked a water gun with a fish attached and held it up, jabbering excitedly. “Wa’ss this?? Wha’d i’d do??” he babbled at Greg, waving the toy in his face.

“That. is a bubble gun” John said as he took it from him. “You want to see how it works?”

“Y’ah y’ah y’ah, p’ease!” Sherlock said and crawled onto the blanket, then sat up on his knees. “S’ow me! S’ow me bubb’as!” he clapped.

The baby’s eagerness made John grin, and he picked up one of the bottles of solution. “Here,” he said, and showed Sherlock the little stopper on the back. “We take this out, and we pour the bubbles in there–”

“Bubb’as in’na fi’ss???”

“Right, bubbles in the fish.” John ended up pouring more of the bubbles onto his hand rather than in the actual toy itself, but no matter…one look at his little boy’s face made the mess worth it. He handed the toy back to Sherlock and wiped his hand on his jeans; “Okay, you see this part, the trigger?”

“Y’ah!”

“Pull it.”

Sherlock held the toy in both hands, and then pulled on the yellow, plastic trigger…and squealed as the first few soapy bubbles oozed out of the fishes mouth. “Y’ook, him b’yow!”

Greg was belly laughing. “Keep squeezing, he’ll blow bigger ones!” he cackled, still cracking up even as Mycroft cuffed the back of his head. “Don’t be disgusting.”

“As’cuss’in!” Sherlock squealed as the fish burped up more bubble sludge, which eventually turned into real, proper bubbles that floated across the blanket and soon had everyone surrounded.

“Not bad for a quid,” Greg said, sounding genuinely impressed. “Hey, muffin, you want a different one now?”

“Y’ah!” Sherlock said, dropping the toy gun back onto the blanket and picking up another that looked like a plastic glove, but with webbed fingers and holes all through the plastic. “Wa’ss this one, G’eg???”

“You just wanted a turn with the gun,” John muttered under his breath, smirking.

“Shu’ddup and hand me that,” Greg said, taking the bottle of solution from him, and then pointed at an empty pie tin.

“Say ‘please’.”

Greg gave him a look that said, ‘…The fuck you on about?’

“You gotta set a good example for the baby.”

With another look, this time one that clearly said ‘I’m going to kick you in your arse later’, Greg rolled his eyes and asked again; “Pleeeeeease, hand me the pie tin,” he said with a barely concealed sneer.

John had a big, smug grin on his face as he handed Greg the tin; “You’re welcome.”

“Goo’ e’ssam’ble!” Sherlock agreed happily, and scooted closer to Greg. “S’ow me how’a do i’d!”

Sherlock’s baby-babbling put the smile back on Greg’s face, and he carefully poured enough solution into the tin to cover the bottom. “Here, put that on,” he said, and watched Sherlock wiggle his hand into the glove; “And now put your hand here…no, flatten it out.” Greg took Sherlock’s wrist and placed his hand flat in the tin; “Now, wave your hand!”

Sherlock giggled and took great joy in flinging his hand about, sending dozens upon dozen of tiny little micro-bubbles into the air…as well as showering everyone else (and a bit on himself) with big drops of soapy liquid. “Watch out, darling,” Mycroft said, and shielded his eyes with his hand.

“Saw’ry!” Sherlock said, and slapped his now-empty bubble glove back into the pie tin, splashing more of it out onto the blanket. “Y’ots bubb’as, My’coff! Y’ots bubb’as!” 

“I see, lots and lots of bubbles!” It’s a good thing he’d left off getting Sherlock dressed, he noted as he saw just how much of the solution his little brother was coated in, from his chest down to his knees. Mycroft sat down on the blanket next to John and picked up a small pink bottle in the shape of a strawberry. “Sherlock, come look at these!”

“Bubb’as??” Sherlock chirped, abandoning his glove as he crawled over to his big brother. “Mo’ bubb’as, My’coff?”

“Yes, but these are different–cut it out, Gregory,” he said, waving a swarm of bubbles from the bubble gun away from his face. “Look,” he said, and cracked open the cap before holding it under Sherlock’s nose. “Smell.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Ooooooo,” he cooed. “Smell pre’ddy!”

“They smell like strawberries, don’t they?” Mycroft said, smiling broadly.

“Uh-huh!” Before Mycroft could say “Wait!”, his slippery, bubble-covered baby brother had crawled into his lap and held his hands up. “I do, i’d, Mycoff? P’ease?”

Mycroft’s features softened as the worry over getting covered in wet, sticky suds left the forefront of his thoughts. “Of course,” he said, dipping the tiny plastic wand that came with the bottle into the bubble, and handed it to Sherlock. “Blow slowly, and you’ll get bigger bubbles!”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “Bigger bubb’as?” he whispered, as if the bubbles were tiny, living things that could be scared off by loud noises.

“Yeah,” John said; he was leaning back on his elbows, watching the two Holmes brothers with a warm, sentimental smile on his face….at least, he was, before getting a face-full of bubbles from Greg’s gun while the other man giggled mischievously. “I’m gonna take that away from you!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and then patted Sherlock’s hip. “C’mon, sweetheart…let’s see how big a bubble you can get!”

Sherlock grinned at him crookedly, then took a big, deep breathe…and ended up blowing a gust straight up, missing the bubble’s completely.

Mycroft pinched his lips together to keep from laughing as Sherlock stared at the bubble wand, brow furrowed, and puzzled at the lack of big, strawberry-scented bubbles that he’d been promised.

Mycroft coughed. “Try again.”

Sherlock tried again to the same affect, succeeding only in blowing his hair out of his face. He pouted; “Is’sit b’oken?” he asked, holding it up in Mycroft’s face.

“You’re too charming for words, but you know that already, don’t you,” Mycroft chuckled, and then blew a small, gently breath right into the bubble wand and produced a small, perfectly pink-tinted bubble.

Sherlock beamed as he watched the bubble float a short way towards him, and then gasped as it landed right on the tip of his nose…and pop.

He scrunched his face and giggled; “I’d po’b ‘ah me!”

Now Mycroft laughed out loud, and gathered his brother in a hug. “It did, it popped on you!” He kissed the tip of Sherlock’s nose, and made a face. “They smell like strawberries, but they certainly don’t taste like them.”

“They’ don’d?”

“No.”

“Wha’d tas’e y’ike?”

“They taste like soap, silly goose…that’s what they are.”

Sherlock made a face; “B’eccch!”

“Then don’t drink them.”

“Don’ drink’a bubb’as!” Sherlock repeated, and waved the tiny wand back in Mycroft’s face. “Ah’gin, My’coff? Ma’ge bi’ bubb’as?”

Mycroft took Sherlock’s hand and kissed the back of it, despite being covered in soap.

“As many as you want, darling.”

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                                                        ~END~