Sadie: That’s a very good point. John would fight tooth and nail to keep that ‘tough guy’ exterior up around Mycroft…his is not a baby, should anyone need to be reminded. But, Sherlock *does* look awfully content to sit in his older brother’s lap. And Mycroft, while still being his normal stuffy, proper self, doesn’t sound as nearly condescending as he usually does. And John is starting to feel a bit left out.
“Spoilt.” John grumbled, getting to his feet and leaning over the coffee table. Sherlock had ‘melted’ into a pile of whinge, leaning heavily against Mycroft’s leg. “Look, see.” John bared his teeth at Sherlock, clicking them together for emphasis. “No pink. I would have g’een tee’f anyways.”
Sherlock giggled and reached out to touch John’s exposed teeth. Before Mycroft could intercede john nipped gently at sherlock’s fingers, causing the little detective to squeak in delight.
“Jawn have nice tee’fs.”
The little doctor beamed with pride as he plopped his bottom back on the floor and took up his green crayon.
“My’coff have nice tee’fs?” Sherlock half crawled into his big brother’s lap, his bottom half still on the floor.
“They are splendid, thank you.” Mycroft leaned around the baby in his lap to draw the body of the chocolate snowman.
“I can see, My?” Sherlock rolled his lips back, demonstrating for Mycroft how easy it was to show off his teeth. “P’ease, My?”
Sadie:
“Who taught you that begging long enough gets you what you want, hm?” Mycroft asked, and then kissed the tip of the little detective’s nose without looking away from what he was doing. “Whomever taught you that needs a swift kick in the pants.”
Surprised by the kiss, Sherlock jerked his head back, startled, and blinked at his brother owlishly before he started giggling. “Noooo, My! I see tee’fs!” He gently butted his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder and rubbed his face from side to side, chanting “Tee’f tee’f tee’f, I see tee’f!”
“You’re going to make the Tooth Fairy question her job security,” Mycroft said, then (once it was clear that Sherlock was only getting louder, and had energy yet to keep going) added a loud “FINE, yes, here they are!”, and bared most of his teeth in a wide, wolfish grin. “See?”
Sherlock leaned in close and hooked his finger in the man’s bottom lip, examining them with a comically professional gaze. “…They’s yellow,” he said, finally.
Mycroft nipped the tip of that finger, causing Sherlock to squeal again and yank it back. “You’re yellow.”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Your bum’s yellow. With flowers on it.”
Sherlock gaped at Mycroft for a moment before twisting as best he could to see his own bum. “Fwowers?”
“Fwowers is a’licious,” John nodded to himself, as he studiously finished filling in the green sky.
“And bees. Which are also yellow.”
“Yike your teefs!” Sherlock giggled, leaning into Mycroft’s chest.
“Yes, yes, very funny. Are you going to finish coloring your fish?”
“No co’doring. Can play?”
“I wike games!” John peeped, shoving his green crayon into the pocket of his onesie. “Pit’cher is done, now fw’idge!!!” John bound to his feet and skittered out of the sitting room, picture in hand.
“Game?” Sherlock looked up at his big brother hopefully.
“Do you know the game Pick Up?” Mycroft frowned around at the sitting room, toys, crayons, and sippy cups everywhere.
Sadie:
“Dat’snotta game!”
“You just…that…you took four words, and turned them into one, do you realize that?”
“I’s smart like that,” Sherlock giggled, headbutting Mycroft’s shoulder. He liked headbutting things, and unlike his Daddy, Mycroft didn’t complain.
“Yes, you are…I’ll give you that,” Mycroft said as he quickly scooted the little yellow detective off of his lap before he could whine anymore. “So you must be smart enough to realize that you and Jawn are both going to tidy up in here. You can either make a game of it, or make it boring and tedious…up to you.”
“Bu’ I don’t want tooooo!” Sherlock whined as he collapsed into the vacant space Mycroft’s bum had left on the couch facedown, bottom up.
“There’s a difference between ‘want’ and ‘need’, Sherlock, and it’s certainly a ‘need’ in this case,” the older brother sniffed. He’d already been elbows deep in tears, snot, drool, powder, and nappies…he was NOT going to clean their place for them.
“Wha’ is it?”
“Hm?”
“Wha’s the dur’fence?” Sherlock asked again, turning his face to the side to peek up at Mycroft with one eye.
“ ‘Want’ is instant gratification. ‘Need’ is delayed satisfaction.”
“Huh?” Sherlock sat up on his knees, and Mycroft could see that two of the snaps of his onesie had come undone in the throes of his flailing, causing it to ruck up on one side. That, along with half a mop of curly hair hanging in his face, made him look adorably disheveled. Mycroft smirked; “Nothing; it means you’re going to clean up even if I have to tie you up in strings and manhandle you like a puppet.”
“P’nochio?” Sherlock asked. “Up, up!” Sherlock lifted his arms, the rest of him going boneless against the sofa.
Mycroft huffed a sigh, dropping his chin to his chest. Of course the clever little prat was going to distract and misdirect in the hopes of getting out of cleaning up.
“I like the bit with the whale.” John said absently, collecting toys from the floor and putting them gently into the toy box.
“Jawn! Ima pup’it, Jawn.”
“The puppet needs to help, or else.”
Sherlock sighed before pushing himself to his feet. He picked up his cup and marched over and tried to hand it to Mycroft. “All clean.”
Mycroft scowled at him. It was difficult to know when Sherlock was being a shit and when he was genuinely to small to understand. This instance seemed to be the former, so Mycroft acted accordingly.
“That goes in the sink,” he said, turning Sherlock and sending him on his way with a swat. “As well as any others that you can find.”
Sadie:
Sherlock grunted and took two dramatic steps forward, as if he would have fallen flat on his face otherwise. He stopped and looked over his shoulder, cup still clutched in both hands. “But there aren’t any more!” he whinged.
“You’re nose is growing. There’s three more right where I can see them.”
“But there’s nooooooooooot!”
“Little boys who whinge–”
“There’s a gol’fish in that movie!”
Mycroft stopped in mid-sentence, then looked back down at John, who was making sure the rest of his plastic dinosaurs were safely sitting on top of the other toys, off to one side. “…What movie?”
John giggled. “You look like Sher’yock does when his brain stops.”
Mycroft decided to ignore that. “What movie?”
“ ‘Nochio! They has’da fish, too!”
“Oh. Right.” Truthfully, Mycroft hadn’t seen the movie in 40 years (at least), and had no idea what John was talking about. He turned back to Sherlock; “As I was saying, little boys who–oh, fuck’sakes,” he muttered.
Sherlock was gone.
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