Greg rubbed Mycroft’s back as he snored. He’d caught a bug
from the boys that had left him with a rattling chest for ages after Sherlock and
Jawn had been whole and hale again. Greg could hear Sherlock over the baby
monitor chattering to his bunny about all the fun things he was going to do
with Da’yee and My’coff and his y’ub bug. Christ. If Sherlock brought a live
bug into the house, Mycroft would have kittens. “Nap times over,” Greg patted
Mycroft’s bum, “I’ll go get the baby up.” Mycroft responded by snoring all the
louder.
Greg switched off the baby monitor and headed down the
hallway to the nursery. Keen ears had heard him coming and Sherlock was
kneeling up the crib, bum waggling like a puppy. “He’yyo! I miss’t you! We can
ha’b ad’bentures now?” Sherlock shouted, stretching his arms for Greg.
“Hello, sweetie muffin. Did you have good sleep?”
“I dun y’ike id!” Sherlock crowed, grinning ear to ear.
Greg slid the side of the crib down and promptly had an
armful of baby, “you silly guy. I know you like naps.”
“Noooo,” Sherlock squeezed Greg. “We ha’b ad’bentures, y’ub
bug?”
“Where’s a bug? Mycroft will be really cross if you brought
a bug in the house. You know how he is.”
Sherlock laid back on the changing table, twisting a finger
in his curls. “My’coff y’ike y’ub bug. My’coff y’ub y’yub bug,” Sherlock said
with a cheeky grin.
“…Love bug is me?” Greg could feel his cheeks turning
scarlet.
“G’eg a y’ub bug,” Sherlock nodded.
Easy ya’ old soppy. Greg smiled down at the baby as he
changed his nappy, “what kind of adventures should my muffin have with his love
bug, hm?”
#prompts are open!
Sadie: Guess who found some of her old dollhouse miniatures.
If there was one thing John loved about Sherlock’s littlespace (and there were loads of things he loved about it), it was a Tiny day.
Tiny days, where Sherlock was so small as to be near pre-verbal, where John could sit or lay him anywhere and, as long as he kept within eyesight, the little detective would stay put and babble quietly with whatever toy he had in reach.
Today, was a Tiny day.
John was in the kitchen, quietly making a simple lunch for himself after laying Sherlock in the floor of the sitting room for a nap (Tiny Sherlock had a tendency to roll, and previous experiences involving the couch and a sizable goose egg popping up on his poor little forehead suggested the floor being the safest place to put him). It hadn’t been long since he’d dozed off, and John had just managed to finish making his sandwich and sit down at the table, when he began to hear little sounds of distress coming from the other room.
John frowned; those weren’t Sherlock’s usual noises. Not even when he was Tiny. He put his sandwich down, pushed his chair back, and got up to go check on his little one.
Sherlock was still where he’d left him, splayed out on his back on top of the pile of soft blankets John always laid out for his Tiny days…but he wasn’t sleeping as peacefully as he had been a few minutes ago.
The tiny detective was obviously dreaming, and it didn’t look like it was anything pleasant. His arms and legs would twitch every so often, and even from across the room, John could see his eyes darting back and forth behind his eyelids while he mumbled and made low squeaking noises that ended in whimpers…the poor thing had even spit his dummy out, and had somehow managed to knock it down near his feet.
“Sherlock…” John knelt down and lightly stroked Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb. “Sherlock, sweetheart, wake up.”
It took two more tries, and John gently shaking his shoulder before Sherlock startled awake, his eyes popping open wide and unfocused as he looked about the room.
Sherlock blinked rapidly, still appearing disoriented until he turned his head and his gaze finally settled on John. The look of panic ebbed away, and he gave John a faint smile.
John smiled back. “Hi, baby.”
The smile could have lasted for an entire lifetime and it still wouldn’t have been long enough for John, but it still faded much too quickly as Sherlock apparently remembered that he’d been having a nightmare; the smile faded and he reached for John, his chin dimpling as his eyes began to well up with tears.
“Aw, no…did my little baby have a bad dream,” John cooed as he helped Sherlock sit up and then held him to his chest. “That’s all it was, sweetheart. Just a bad dream.” He carded his fingers through Sherlocks’ curls and cradled the back of his head as he rocked him, right there on the floor, and kissed his damp little forehead.
Sherlock tucked his arms in between them and sucked his thumb while he lay there, sniffling.
“Poor baby. Do you want Daddy to make you a bottle?”
Sherlock nodded, but the moment John started to pull away and stand up, he let out a weak, strangled cry, and John knew he wasn’t going anywhere at that particular moment.
“Alright, we’ll wait a little bit first,” he said, and continued to rock his little one.
If there was one thing John loved about Sherlock’s littlespace (and there were loads of things he loved about it), it was a Tiny day.
Tiny days, where Sherlock was so small as to be near pre-verbal, where John could sit or lay him anywhere and, as long as he kept within eyesight, the little detective would stay put and babble quietly with whatever toy he had in reach.
Today, was a Tiny day.
John was in the kitchen, quietly making a simple lunch for himself after laying Sherlock in the floor of the sitting room for a nap (Tiny Sherlock had a tendency to roll, and previous experiences involving the couch and a sizable goose egg popping up on his poor little forehead suggested the floor being the safest place to put him). It hadn’t been long since he’d dozed off, and John had just managed to finish making his sandwich and sit down at the table, when he began to hear little sounds of distress coming from the other room.
John frowned; those weren’t Sherlock’s usual noises. Not even when he was Tiny. He put his sandwich down, pushed his chair back, and got up to go check on his little one.
Sherlock was still where he’d left him, splayed out on his back on top of the pile of soft blankets John always laid out for his Tiny days…but he wasn’t sleeping as peacefully as he had been a few minutes ago.
The tiny detective was obviously dreaming, and it didn’t look like it was anything pleasant. His arms and legs would twitch every so often, and even from across the room, John could see his eyes darting back and forth behind his eyelids while he mumbled and made low squeaking noises that ended in whimpers…the poor thing had even spit his dummy out, and had somehow managed to knock it down near his feet.
“Sherlock…” John knelt down and lightly stroked Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb. “Sherlock, sweetheart, wake up.”
It took two more tries, and John gently shaking his shoulder before Sherlock startled awake, his eyes popping open wide and unfocused as he looked about the room.
Sherlock blinked rapidly, still appearing disoriented until he turned his head and his gaze finally settled on John. The look of panic ebbed away, and he gave John a faint smile.
John smiled back. “Hi, baby.”
The smile could have lasted for an entire lifetime and it still wouldn’t have been long enough for John, but it still faded much too quickly as Sherlock apparently remembered that he’d been having a nightmare; the smile faded and he reached for John, his chin dimpling as his eyes began to well up with tears.
“Aw, no…did my little baby have a bad dream,” John cooed as he helped Sherlock sit up and then held him to his chest. “That’s all it was, sweetheart. Just a bad dream.” He carded his fingers through Sherlocks’ curls and cradled the back of his head as he rocked him, right there on the floor, and kissed his damp little forehead.
Sherlock tucked his arms in between them and sucked his thumb while he lay there, sniffling.
“Poor baby. Do you want Daddy to make you a bottle?”
Sherlock nodded, but the moment John started to pull away and stand up, he let out a weak, strangled cry, and John knew he wasn’t going anywhere at that particular moment.
“Alright, we’ll wait a little bit first,” he said, and continued to rock his little one.
~*~*~*~
…He still loves Sherlock’s Tiny days.
Sadie: John had words with the shipping company about why it took nearly a month to ship a ‘bloody stuffed animal’, but at the end of the day, he had a very happy little boy who got to celebrate his birthday all over again.
Sadie: Once Sherlock was old enough to walk, he developed a habit of hiding Mycroft’s things…anything ranging from pencils to articles of clothing (shoes were a frequent choice, and it was usually only one of the pair) were in danger of being pilfered.
Mycroft could always sniff out his hiding places in pretty short order, however, and missing items never stayed missing for long. Except for once. The day Mycroft’s eyeglasses went missing.
Both he and Mummy searched high and low, in every single little hideaway that Sherlock had been known to squirrel his stolen treasures away, but nothing turned up (save for a load of buttons, one of Mummy’s scarves, and a tie pin that no one had ever seen before). After two hours of searching, they both threw up their hands and gave up…Mummy said they would just have to get another pair until the old ones turned up, then Mycroft would have a spare.
…Mummy was the one to finally find them, though. After changing Sherlock’s nappy.
Sadie & Mo's Boutique 