Tag: sadie’s stories

Hi! I saw prompts were still open, so i was wondering if you could write some little Sherlock and Jawn together? Maybe Mycroft took them to the park one evening so they could play? I don’t know, i just love it when those two are little together ❤

Sadie: So this one has been sitting in my inbox for awhile, and I *think* the same person might have sent in these two:

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And if so, I am REALLY sorry! I know it takes me forever to get around to writing prompts, and for that, I sincerely apologize!

So, here’s some very belated Sherlock and Jawn (along with their My’coff and G’eg)! 🙂

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Never again. 

Never again was Mycroft ever, ever leaving them three of them alone to their own devices ever again.

Ever.

“Wha’?” Greg asks, looking up at his peevish lover from where he lay stretched out on the couch.

Mycroft glared down at him, disapprovingly. “You were supposed to be watching them.”

“Well, uh, I am watching, them, love.” Greg nodded his head down at the little curly-haired detective lazily cuddling in his lap, while his tiny blond counterpart played cheerfully on the floor in front of them. “Kinda hard to miss’em.”

“You knew what I meant.”

“You told me to watch them; I am watching them.”

Mycroft stood with his hands on his hips. “The two of you have been lying there like a loaf all afternoon.”

At this, Sherlock happily (and perhaps just to be a little bit spiteful) snuggled himself into the crook of Greg’s neck even closer than he had been before. Greg kissed the top of his head and gazed back up at Mycroft with a broad, shit-eating grin. “How you figure?”

“Don’t get smart with me; you’ll lose.” Mycroft was not impressed. “I told you to keep them busy.”

“Jawn’s plenty busy.”

Mycroft was not impressed. He looked over at Jawn, who was indeed being kept busy by a battery operated toy. Jawn squealed again as a ball with a faux-animal tail bounced and rolled across the room, and scurried after it. “I meant keep them BOTH busy.”

Greg stifled a yawn and stretched, then rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock’s back. At least there was one Holmes brother who liked to cuddle with him.  And by God, Greg Lestrade was going to take all the cuddling he could get…if not from one, then the other. “We get plenty of exercise at work; don’t worry ‘bout it.”  

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the toy that had just skittered under the other couch on the opposite side of the room. “…Is that a cat toy?” he asked, watching Jawn lay flat out on his belly to try and fish it out.

Greg closed his eyes and grinned. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Where did a cat toy come from?”

“Cat th’tore,” Sherlock piped up around his dummy, his fingers playing with the small wisp of chest hair that had poked out between the buttons of Greg’s shirt. Greg chuckled, then cracked an eye open to peek up at Mycroft.

Mycroft was not amused.

Greg knew that look. It was a look that said ‘-If-you-ever-want-your-cock-sucked-again-’… Greg cleared his throat and gave a half-hearted swat to Sherlock’s padded bottom. “Don’t smart off at your brother.”

Sherlock whinged and wiggled his backside, then his his face against Greg’s neck and mumbled.

“What did he say?”

Greg bit his lip in a poor effort not to smile, and shook his head.

“Gregory.”

“…He said, ‘At least we didn’t put a bell on him.’“

Mycroft pinched his lips together and inhaled deeply through his nose, then…

Across the room, Jawn began to kick his feet against the floor and squawk angrily. He couldn’t reach his toy, and it was beginning to piss him off in the only way a two year old could get pissed off–hugely. Mycroft sighed, then batted the side of Greg’s head. “Get up. Both of you. We’re going to the pet store, then the park.”

The announcement was met with dual groans. Greg squinted up at him; “Pet store? You’re not gonna take it back, are you? Jawn actually likes it.”

Mycroft smiled down at him. “Oh no, love…you’re quite right. He does like it, and that wouldn’t be fair.”

Greg waited for the catch…because when Mycroft smiled, there was always a catch. When none was offered, Greg asked, “So…why?”

“We’re going back so I can buy the both of you bells and keep you from molding into part of my furniture. Now get your lazy arses up and get moving.”

Sherlock and Mycroft, childhood headcanon?

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.

Idk if prompts are still open for Ficlets, but if they are, can we get some Daddy John with a pair of little Holmes boys? I love your fics btw.

sadieandmo:

Sadie: I can’t really picture Mycroft as a Little myself personally, but this prompt actually gave me an idea…so maybe this can qualify? 
¯_(ツ)_/¯ 

Hope you like it, anon!

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“Yes, and what is it that

you

want?”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft ignored his name and the tone of voice it was used in, and continued to stare down at his feet with a not-even-remotely-veiled sneer curling his lip.
“Well, why is he looking at me like that?”

“He wants you to play with him.”

Keep reading

Idk if prompts are still open for Ficlets, but if they are, can we get some Daddy John with a pair of little Holmes boys? I love your fics btw.

Sadie: I can’t really picture Mycroft as a Little myself personally, but this prompt actually gave me an idea…so maybe this can qualify? 
¯_(ツ)_/¯ 

Hope you like it, anon!

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“Yes, and what is it that

you

want?”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft ignored his name and the tone of voice it was used in, and continued to stare down at his feet with a not-even-remotely-veiled sneer curling his lip.
“Well, why is he looking at me like that?”

“He wants you to play with him.”

The sneer deepened. “I don’t ‘play’.”

John raised an eyebrow. “…Seriously? You’re going to try to give me that, with a whole closet full of board games here, and you with a gameroom that at least 80% of the people on the internet would sell their grandmother for?”

Mycroft continued to scowl. He didn’t have an answer for that. He didn’t like not having an answer. He didn’t know that John knew about the gameroom. “You’ve got a big mouth,” he told his little brother, who was still sitting at his feet.

Sherlock didn’t answer…not verbally, at least, as Mycroft preferred, but hummed at him questioningly. Then he sat up on his knees and held out the lump of what looked like dirty, purple clay in his hands, offering it to him. 

“Aw, lookit,” John grinned, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand. “Go on, Mycroft…play with him!”

“Games are one thing,” Mycroft admitted, albeit begrudgingly. He sniffed and sat back in his chair. “But I don’t do ‘crafts’.”

John rolled his eyes; this was not a worthwhile argument, and damned if he was going to let him spoil his baby brother’s good mood. “C’mere, love,” he said, reaching for Sherlock. “Mycroft’s being a pain in the…bum. I’ll do playdough with you.”

Sherlock wilted as John scooped him up into his lap from behind.

“ ‘Playdough’?” The name sounded as disgusting as it looked. “It’s clay.”

“Not quite.” John took the lump and split it in half, keeping one for himself and giving the other back to Sherlock, who slapped his on the table and began to mash it flat.

“It looks like it.”

“It’s different,” John said…there was a bit of an edge to his voice. But he was determined no to let the elder Holmes boy spoil anything with his smarmy attitude. “It’s…” He tried to think of a good reason, one that Mycroft wouldn’t rip to condescending shreds. “…softer.”

Mycroft stared at him flatly.

“And more colorful.”

He rolled his eyes.

“And it’s easier to sculpt.”

“So…child-friendly clay.”

John sighed as he worked the clay–playdough, in his hands to soften it. “Sure, Mycroft.”

Sherlock peeled his flattened purple pancake off of the table, then pinched it back into a lump and handed it to John with a grunt.

“What are you handing it to me for, hm?”

Sherlock tried to mash it into John’s fist with the other half, only succeeding with a small part…the rest was moulded to John’s hand.

“I take it you want me to do something with it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“What d’you want?”

Sherlock pressed his hands together and made a rubbing motion.

“A ball?”

Sherlock nodded again, excitedly.

“Ohhh, no.” John laughed, peeling it away. “I’m not rolling balls for you anymore…mine always come out egg-shaped, then you get cross with me for hours.”

Mycroft, who had been (surprisingly) quiet as he sat off to the side, watching, suddenly held out his hand. “I can roll one.”

Two sets of eyes sat and blinked at him, and he began to wonder why he’d opened his mouth. But before he could withdraw the offer, Sherlock was scraping all of his playdough together and shoving it across the table at his brother. “P’eathe!” he said, his dummy slurring his words. “P’eathe, My’coff!”

Mycroft wordlessly took the cl–playdough, and began to roll it between his palms.

John bounced Sherlock on his knee, beaming like an idiot.

“…Shut up.”

“Didn’t say a word.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Within the next hour, Sherlock not only had an entire army of miniature snowmen (all made with a trio of perfectly rounded spheres), but he had switched over to his brother’s lap. “What now?” Mycroft asked, resting his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder as he gazed over their battalion of  handmade ball-men.

Sherlock grinned and reached for one of the smaller snowmen on the outer flank ( ‘pawns’, Mycroft referred to them as)…then slapped his hand down over it, smashing it flat as he giggled like mad.

John roared with laughter at the look on Mycroft’s face as each and every one of his painstakingly crafted army were smashed by a maniacally

cackling toddler, who was taking great pleasure in his destruction.

“That’s the thing about playdough, Mycroft,” John said, chuckling and wiping the tears from his eyes as the other man shot him a withering glare.

“Smash it down all you want, but at least you can always build it back up.”

Headcanons

Sadie: Embie and I were discussing the pirate AU she reblogged earlier, and of course, that invited the question:

Embie: “
I wonder what pirate babylock would look like”

Naturally, I obliged: “
Cap’n Da’ would have him in a bandana with his hair sticking out the
sides like piggytails, and he’d have a little gold stud earring in one
ear instead of a gold hoop like the big boys. 😛

“

So now, after mucho begging and being told to hold her dipies on, I’m supplying Embie with more baby piratelock headcanons.

Feel free to add on!

  • He’d be a spoiled little thing, too–pirate coins and treasure to play
    with, pretty jewels to play dress-up in…and God help anyone else but
    the Cap’n trying to put him on the Naughty Step! They’ll walk the plank!
  • Instead of a parrot on his shoulder, Captain Watson has a little bejeweled pirate babe on his knee, gnawing on a gold chain.
  • He’s a mischievous little blighter, but the crew becomes fond of having
    him around. Then comes a night where the Cap’n has to spank him, and
    when Cap’n Watson steps out of his quarters afterwards, there’s the
    whole crew glaring at him, ready to mutiny. 

  • He loves to leave little pictures all over the ship (and parchment when he gets his hands on it) in charcoal.
  • Charcoal + Cap’n Da’s maps=why he got his bottom smacked^^^
  • The galley cook made him an extra sweetie that night^^^
  • Give him a coil of rope and he can come up with more efficient, secure knots than anyone had ever seen before. Plus, it keeps him busy for HOURS.

My prompt is just 4 words – Daddy John: Tickle Monster

A Sadie: Oh boy howdy this my jam. 😛

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It had been quiet.

Far too quiet.

John looked up from his mac, where he’d been engrossed with video after video of ‘mysterious’ disappearances (it was baffling; they were so obviously clickbait-y and fake, but the end of one led to another, which led to opening two more tabs, which led to clicking more vids on the sidebars of both, and before he knew it, John had been completely immersed in the weird side of youtube for the better part of two hours), and found himself alone in the sitting room with an obnoxiously loud, cartoon feature playing on the telly.

A particular little nappy-wearing someone was nowhere to be seen.

…Shit.

“Sherlock?” No answer.

John shut his computer and put it aside. “Sherlock, sweetheart? Where’d you go, love?” he called out, keeping his voice even. Nothing had happened (yet), no catastrophies, no one was crying (yet)…no, there was nothing to worry about (yet).

There was no answer. John walked through the flat, calling Sherlock’s name and trying to coax him out. “Sheeeerlock…” He thought if he made it sound like a game, the little detective would be more likely to come out.

As a matter of fact, it could be a game…Little Sherlock loved hide-and-seek, after all.

But as tempting as John tried to sound, he ended up with nothing. No muffled giggles, no pattering feet…nothing in the kitchen, nor the bathroom, same with both bedrooms (and he looked under both beds AND out both windows!).

If John didn’t know any better, he would say he was alone in the flat.

…Oh, shit.

John hurried back through the flat,forcing himself not to run and telling the note of panic that was poking at the back of his head to shut the fuck up while also telling himself that no, there was no way Sherlock would up and leave the flat by himself, not when he was little, that even as a little he still had some sense of self-preservation for his narrow little arse, and….

John rushed into the sitting room, and came to a complete stop.

He wasn’t alone after all.

The sitting room was no longer empty.

And neither was his chair, which now had a little padded, curly-haired dummy-sucker curled up in it, calmly watching the animated movie that was still playing.

John took a deep breath and sighed in relief, then chuckled…it was fine. Everything was fine; he’d been right.

The doctor walked over to the chair and stood in front of the little detective, blocking his view, and put his hands on his hips. He cleared his throat; “Found yourself a seat, did you?” he asked, looking down at Sherlock with a straight face.

Sherlock looked up at him and blinked, then grinned around his dummy. “Yesh I ha’b!” he said proudly, and wiggled on his bum.

John was able to hold it together and not melt into a puddle of warm goo at the sight…but only just, because that was the cutest damned thing he’d ever seen. “Daddy thought a monster had gotten you,” he said in a very serious manner, and raised his eyebrow.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide. “A mon’ser?”

“You didn’t know there’s a monster on the loose?”

Sherlock shook his head quickly.

“But there is! A great, big…” John grinned wickedly and held up his hands like a mad scientist proud of his creation, “…TICKLE MONSTER!” he crowed, and dove onto the little detective for the attack, going right for those extra ticklish ribs.

Sherlock shrieked and tried to scramble out of the chair but found himself blocked in by Daddy and his reachy, grabby arms! He tried to protect himself from the onslaught, but they were everywhere…tickling his feets, his tummy, his armpits, his neck, his legs; no matter how much he flailed and kicked, there they were! “No mon’ser, NO MON’SER, ‘TOPPIT! NO MON’SER!” he squeal-laughed over John’s monster growls.

John didn’t stop until he was just as out-of-breath as Sherlock. “Can Daddy…have his seat…back now?” he panted, grinning broadly.

Sherlock lay on his back, breathing heavily in between phantom giggles, his hands clamped onto John’s wrists in a feeble attempt to hold them off. “No… more…mon’ser?” he huffed.

“That depends on whether you get your thieving little bum out of my seat.”

Sherlock thought about it, and while John was wondering if he had enough left in him for another round, the little detective nodded.

“Good lad. Monster needs a break after that, anyway…you gave him a good one in the ribcage.” With Sherlock still holding his wrists, John lifted him up into a sitting position, then hauled him out of his chair. “I’ll make you a deal; you can sit in my lap and watch the rest of your movie, how about that?”

Sherlock nodded as he was stood on his feet; “Y’ah, soun’s goo–” The little detective stopped in mid-sentence, and looked down at himself. “…Uh-oh.”

“ ‘Uh-oh’? What’s ‘uh-oh’?…” John followed Sherlock’s gaze, and found what ‘uh-oh’ was.

“…After a change, then.”

How about little Sherlock makes a major mess with an experiment and gets a good smacking? Perhaps the wooden spoon comes out again! Been a while since John used it, I think. Thanks for considering my prompt!

Sadie: Gah, it takes me too long to get to these, but I always enjoy getting them!

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“What. The Hell. Is That.”

“I don’t…” Sherlock paused, “…honestly know.”

John gagged and covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve and turned away before his breakfast could be revisited all over the lino, and wondered how something like…like that, could even exist.

‘That’, being the bright orange, sickly sweet and vaguely tarty-smelling mould that had taken over the second shelf in their refrigerator, and was creeping it’s wretched way up the back wall.

Christ, it was just…yeah, he hadn’t had a need to open the fridge in awhile (more like the past week…maybe closer to two weeks) what with never being home long enough to have a proper meal other than take-away, but still! How was it even possible for something like ‘that’ to grow that much in that amount of time?!

Sherlock was still bent over with his head stuck in the fridge, examining it. John didn’t know how he managed to not retch at the smell. “Clean it up, NOW.”

Sherlock glared at him over his shoulder.”Why me?!”

“Because I’m not the one always growing ‘experiments’ in there.”

Sherlock sneered; “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“I don’t care. You know the drill. Bucket. Hot, soapy water. Scrub brush. Now.”

“It’s not mine.” Sherlock turned back and leaned in further, looking for the source of the…growth. “It’s coming from underneath this pile of foil; I don’t wrap mine in fo-OW!”

A sharp rap against his bent-over backside cut him off, and as an awful burning sensation began to radiate from the point of impact, the detective shot straight up and reached back to cover his arse as he whipped around to face a very dangerous-looking John, who was still brandishing a long-handled, equally dangerous-looking wooden spoon.

“You…are going to clean that up,” John said, pointing the spoon at Sherlock’s face.

“But it’s not my–ah!!” Sherlock cried out again as the spoon lashed out again, faster than his eye could see, and cracked against the back of his thigh. He took a step back, keeping his targeted area out of John’s range. “It’s not mine!” he said again, the pitch of his voice becoming strained…damn, that thing hurt!

John took another step forward and, before Sherlock could retreat any further, snagged Sherlock’s elbow in an iron-tight grip. “No! More! Excusese!” he said, punctuating each word with a solid whap against Sherlock’s bum, wherever his hands weren’t covering. Sherlock yelped and danced around in a frantic circle, desperate to get away, but unable to pull out of John’s grip. “I didn’ do’it!!!” he wailed, tears stinging his eyes.

Around and around they went, with sharp cracks from the spoon and howl’s of protest, with Sherlock leading them in a rather painful parody of a Maypole dance as he hopped from foot-to-foot with each searing whack.

Not even Ms. Hudson, as familiar with her boy’s antics as she was, could ignore the heartbreaking pleas for mercy…especially considering they’d conveniently left their door open for her and the whole bloody neighborhood to hear. “What is going on?!?” she shouted as she ascended the steps and happened upon the arduous scene.

John landed another punishing smack the Sherlock’s bum and stopped, mildly out of breath and breathing hard while he held fast to the little detective’s arm. “Take a look in the refrigerator and see for yourself; maybe you can get a better answer out of this one than I can,” he huffed, glowering up at Sherlock.

Now that the assault against the delicate portion of his person had paused, Sherlock rubbed his backside like a madman and was near in hysterics while he pleaded at his Nana. “I-I-I d-did’n, d-did-dn’ d-do it,” he blubbered, tears coursing down his cheeks.

Ms. Hudson raised her eyebrow and went over to the refrigerator to see what all the fuss was about. She opened the door, and stared for a moment. “John…”

John swatted Sherlock again, causing a high-pitched shriek. “Don’t you worry,” he said, keeping his eye squarely on his little troublemaker. “This one’s going to clean up his mess, whether or not he can sit down to do it!…”

“JOHN.”

John finally turned to look at her. “What!?”

“…That’s the half a pineapple I gave you, three weeks ago.”

Everything went quiet. Even Sherlock stopped his sobbing, but continued to sniffle. “…It is?” John asked, uncertainty taking the edge off his voice. 

Ms. Hudson turned to face them, her hands on her hips. “It is.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock pulled his elbow out of John’s grip again, and this time, John let him. “T-tol’ you,” he sniffled sullenly, sticking out his bottom lip and pouting at him.

John looked away and gave a sheepish laugh; “Guess I, uh, owe you an apology,” he said, and coughed.

Sherlock kept glaring and rubbing his backside.

Shit. He’d really stepped in it this time. “Sherlock, love, I’m sor–OW!”

Quick as a flash that defied her years, Ms. Hudson, Nana, had slipped up behind John, jerked the spoon from his hand, and cracked him across the arse with it. John whirled around, eyes wide, mouth gaping. “Oi!…”

“ ‘Oi’, nothing!” Ms. Hudson brandished the spoon in his face, a mere fraction of an inch from his nose, making him go cross-eyed. “You go clean your mess, before you can’t sit!”

“But I–yeeeow!” John squealed as five more rapid swats met the crease of his thigh, and he darted away. “Alright, alright, sorrysorrysorry!”

Nana stood and gave his the evil-eye as he scurried away to fetch all the cleaning supplies, then turned to the detective, who was now looking smug but tearful, and took his hand. “You come with me, dear…I was just setting up for tea.”

Sherlock took her hand and toddled along after his Nana and, just as they were leaving through the door, looked back to see John carrying a bucket with several rags and bottles of cleanser in it. He waited until he caught John’s eye, smiled…then stuck out his tongue and made a great, big ‘PTHHHHHBBBBT!’-noise at him before following his Nana down the stairs for tea and biscuits.

John glared after him, cheeks burning, then sighed and started to fill the bucket with hot water.

Why did these things always happen to him?