I am soooooo late!!!! But I loved this prompt. Thank you!!!
“I’m going to be Louis Pastuer,” Sherlock said.
“Not sure who that is, Muffin, but sounds good. What do we need to buy?” Greg asked, twisting his face away from Jawn’s hands that were patting his cheek.
“Ima Be a y’ego. O’gay. A y’ego.”
“A terribly handsome lego.”
“He’s the inventor of pasteurization,” Sherlock huffed.
“Exciting. A lego man, Jawn?”
“Pasteurization is the hallmark of modern society. Shelf stable milk is a miracle.”
“I y’ike mil’g,” Jawn had settled in Greg’s lap and was chewing his own fingers.
“You sure you don’t wanna be somethin’ else?”
“Y’ike a y’ego?”
“Or, I dunno, a fish or a kitty?”
Sherlock turned his nose up at them and went back to ‘reading’ a picture book.
“You can’nah be a red y’ego cause ima be a red y’ego.”
“A red lego?!? Not green.”
“No. Red. Gotsa ha’b eigh’d bumps.”
Greg buried his face in Jawn’s neck, “You’re a charming little bit, you know that don’t ya?”
Jawn squealed and wiggled off Greg’s lap, “sto’b id, G’eg’ry. Bumps is ‘por’dant!”
“They are called studs.”
“So’m I when your brother has had to many glasses of sherry. OI! Hush!” Greg shouted over a chorus of ‘ewwws’.
Tagging @squeakpigsrevenge…this is all thanks to her and her cute af emojis.
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Embie:
_(：3 」∠ )_
Lololol nini
Sadie:
John’s in the bathroom shaving and when he finally opens the door
“You know, you could’a been little, too,” Greg said, licking a smear of yellow frosting off the side of his hand.
John shook his head. “Nah, it’s his day…I like being Daddy on his day.” He picked up and placed another tiny fondant bee on top of one cupcake, and delicately pressed it into the icing without disturbing the shape.
“How did we get roped into this task, by the way?”
“Hm?”
“I’ve never even cracked an egg into a bowl before, and here I am piping icing for two dozen cupcakes.”
“Because the baby asked for cupcakes, and you love the baby.” John stepped back to stretch the crick out of his neck after being hunched over, and looked down at the rows of tiny, pastel-yellow cakes that lines the counter. “And not a bad effort. Where’d the bees come from?”
“Mycroft.”
“Mycroft made them?”
“Yeah. Was up until 2 this morning and made loads.”
“Where’d he learn how to do that?”
“He found Pinterest.”
“Seriously? Not bad.” John picked up one of the cupcakes nearest him and held it up. “Like, professional level. Maybe he should do this for a living.”
“GOD, no. He was a demon. You should see the ones he threw away because they didn’t turn out right.”
“Jesus.”
“It was a black and yellow massacre.”
“They are cute, though. Almost a shame that they’re gonna be eat–oh, shit.”
“What?”
“Sherlock won’t eat them.”
“What? But that’s what he asked for–”
“The bees. They have faces. He won’t eat them. He’d feel too bad.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.”
Greg stared at him for a moment before looking down at the rows of cupcakes. “Oh, shit.”
A short, (hopefully) sweet Christmas drabble to get me back into the swing of things.
Happy Holidays, everyone!
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“MY’COFF!”
Mycroft Holmes stifled a sigh; “…Indoor voice, Jawn. Please.”
There was a beat pause before he heard his name again, this time in the form of a stage whisper. “MY’COFF!!!”
Little smart-arse.
He could hear Gregory giggling at the other end of the counter, and a faint smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, darling?”
“He’s ea’ding the dough again!” Jawn whinged.
‘At least his voice was back at a normal decibel,’ Mycroft thought…for someone who was standing right at his shoulder, in any case. “It’s fine, Jawn,” he said, the smirk on his face growing. “That’s why he has his own.”
“Bu’d he’s ea’ding han’fulls,” Jawn whinged again, and tugged on Mycroft’s sleeve. “I’ds no’d good for’im!”
The giggling from Gregory’s end of the counter was becoming more evident. Ignoring it, Mycroft finally set down his rolling pin and turned to Jawn, giving him his whole attention. “Jawn, he’s not–”
“He’s too li’ddol,” Jawn insisted and frowned at Sherlock, who was sitting in his high chair ( an adult-sized booster seat which could be buckled to a regular chair, which made it all the more easy to pull up to the counter so he could be a part of all the fun) and sucking the raw sugar cookie dough from his fingers. There was still a goodly amount of dough on his tray (and his cheeks, and down his bib, and his chin, and his hair), so he couldn’t have eaten that much.
Mycroft’s smirk turned into a full smile at the notion that Jawn thought he was anywhere near big enough to call someone else ‘too little’. “He’s fine, Jawn,” Mycroft said again, and reached down to pinch his baby brother’s cheek, leaving behind a smudge of flour.
Sherlock scrunched his neck and gave Mycroft a beautiful smile that wrinkled the top of his nose adorable.
“He’s gonna ea’d i’d all…”
“No, he wo–” Mycroft was cut short as Sherlock, ever insistent on proving him wrong no matter his headspace, pulled an admittedly large piece of dough from the pile on his tray and stuff it in his mouth. “…Hm.”
“Seeeeeeeeeee,” Jawn said smugly, and crossed his arms over his chest as he gloated up at Mycroft.
“Hush.” Mycroft gathered the rest of the dough from Sherlock’s tray while he was still occupied with getting it off of his fingers, and put it on the counter-top with the rest of their cookie-making mess. “Gregory, be a peach and bring me the bin with all the play-doh in it.”
“Yes, dearest,” replied Greg (who was looking quite smart in his gingerbread man pinny), leaving his bowls of red, green, and white frosting that he’d painstakingly mixed behind as he went to go fetch the play-doh bin.
Jawn eyed the crumbled pile of cookie dough on the counter. “Wha’der you gonna do with tha’d?…”
“Make cookie with it, of course.”
“Ewwwwwww…i’ds go’d him’s spi’d in’nit!”
Mycroft dutifully resisted the urge (and it was a strong one, by God) to imply that Sherlock’s spit wasn’t the lewdest thing Jawn had ever had in his mouth. “It will bake out,” he said dryly.
“I’ds still g’woss.”
“Then don’t eat them.” Mycroft picked up his rolling pin and quickly flattened the offending dough. “Here, take your cookie cutters and get back to work, or we won’t have cookies enough for Santa.”
Well, that was all the encouragement Jawn needed to hear! He picked up the nearest cookie cutter, a Christmas tree-shaped one, and began punching out tree-shaped blobs of dough.
Sherlock, having scraped every last bit of dough off his fingers while watching Jawn work, looked to his big brother and held his slobber-covered hands up as if waiting for his turn. “Hm?”
Mycroft smiled and clucked his tongue at him. “Mucky pup…Gregory will be right back with something for you–look, there he is!”
Sherlock craned his neck and, yes indeed! Greg was right behind him with a plastic storage bin full of child-safe clay and the toys to go with it.
He set it on the table and opened it, and began pulling containers out of it. “…This is gonna be a terrible mess,” Greg said as he glanced the leftover’s bit of chewed-up dough and spit on the baby’s tray.
“That’s what soap and hot water is for, darling.”
Greg grinned and started to pop lids off of all the small tubs. “I love it when you’re like this,” he said, handing Sherlock the green play-doh.
“Like what?”
“Like the rest of us…in a good mood and not a high-maintenance tit,” Greg said…then squealed loudly and bounced away, rubbing a spot on his bum. “Mean!”
Mycroft laid the wooden spoon back on the counter. “Luckily,” he said, raising an eyebrow at Greg, “I’m in a good mood.” There was a mischievous little gleam in his eye.
“Cheeky.” Greg kept his backside pointed away from his lover and gave Sherlock the red dough next, then a small plastic rolling pin, and a couple of plastic cookie cutters. “Have at it, munchkin,” he said, giving the baby a kiss on one of the only clean spots on his forehead.
“Can you say ‘thank you, Gregory’?” Mycroft prompted. He doubted that Sherlock would, being in his Tiny headspace and all, but it was cute to hear him try.
“G’eck!!” Sherlock waved the rolling pin, and Greg laughed. “Close enough!”
Mycroft looked over Jawn’s work; “Perfect,” he said, and went to lick the powdered sugar from his sleeve where tiny fingers had been. ‘Fourteen cookies out of one batch; magnificent job, pet,” he added, and watched Jawn’s chest puff up with pride. “Let’s get those on the tray.”
“An’ then de’gorat’de?!?!?!”
“We bake them first–”
“An’ then de’gora’de??!!!”
“–And then we let them cool…”
“Awww.”
“…And then we decorate them.”
“Y’ah!” Jawn whooped, and jumped down off his stool. “I wan’ de’gora’de all’a mines!”
“There’s enough cookies for everyone to decorate.”
“Bu’d Sher’yock’s…!”
“Sherlock’s very excited to decorate, too.” Mycroft interrupted. “Where did we put all the candies, darling?”
“Top’o the pantry, love.”
“You’re a peach, dear.”
“I know, sweetcheeks.”
Mycroft ignored the sounds of Jawn gagging and started to walk to the pantry, passing by the baby and his own little mini-bakery set up on his tray, when Sherlock stopped him:
“B’AH!”
“Yes, what is it, “Mycoft cooed down at him. “Are you a busy little baker-bee, hm?”
Sherlock proudly held up a cragged, lumpy piece of red play-doh in the shape of a star. “G’AH!”
Mycroft pressed his hands to his cheeks in over-the-top amazement. “Beautiful! The most wonderful star I’ve ever seen!”
“Y’AH!” Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, offering Mycroft his star.
“Perfect.” Mycroft gingerly took it into his hands. “Here, Gregory…take this and put it on the ‘tray’ with the rest.”
“Oh, yeah. On the tray, ‘wink-wink’.”
Mycroft chuckled and, after passing off Sherlock’s ‘cookie’, wiped his hands on his pinny and went into the pantry.
As he stood on his toes and reached for the bag of brightly-coloured chocolate candies that they’d bought (and hidden) for tonight, Mycroft found himself humming…humming ‘Jingle Bell Rock’, of all things.
He would have started smiling, if he hadn’t been already.
Yes, he supposed he was in a good mood tonight. Hard not to be, with everyone–
Shouting came from the kitchen. “MY’COFF!!!”
“Indoor voice.”
“HE’S HI’DDING ME WITH THA’D RO’YYING PIN!!!”
Mycroft bit his lip to stifle a laugh, even as he heard his little brother cackling.
squeakpigsrevenge: They just put it on him, hence the blinking Trying to decide how soon to take it off
sadieandmo: “You can’t play in the snow if you don’t have your hat, muffin.”
squeakpigsrevenge: “Bu’d I c’n. I p’womise.”
sadieandmo: “No.” “Bu’d I c’n! Wa’ss me!” “Uncle Greg said no.”
squeakpigsrevenge: “I’m b’ery goo’ a’d p’yaying.” “But not very good at listening.”
sadieandmo: “Ye’th I am.” “No you aren’t.” “Uh’huh.” “You’re not using your listening ears right now, little boy.” “You no’d, ei’ver.” “…‘Scuse you?” “G’eg no’d y’isten’a me.”
squeakpigsrevenge: “Gentlemen!” Mycroft interrupts, “Sherlock. You are not Allowed to play in snow without a hat on.” “Buuuu’d I haaaaa’d ha’ds!”
sadieandmo: “I’m sorry, but that’s the rule.” “Nooooooo, p’ease!” “Sherlock–” “Off, I wan’d i’d off!” “Sherlock, if you take one more step outside without your hat on you’re coming right back in for a spanking and a nap.” “My’cooooff, nooooo!”
squeakpigsrevenge: Greg stepped in and pulled the hat onto the baby’s head for a second time. “If we see you take it off, it’s spanking then a nap. Understood.” “I un’ers’and an I haaaaaaa’de i’d.”
sadieandmo: Sherlock doesn’t last a full two minutes before Mycroft is plucking his hat out of the snow and dragging him back into the house. “A spanking and a nap. Not the wisest of choices, but it was yours to make.” Sherlock’s already tearing up as he stumbles along in his snow boots after his brother. “Tha’ds no’d fair!” he grizzles. “You knew what would happen if–” “Bu’d, bu’d you an’, an’ G’eg don’d wear ha’ds!”
squeakpigsrevenge: “This isn’t about Gregory and I. This is about you.” It takes forever to get his snowsuit off cause he’s winding himself into a strop about being in the house.
sadieandmo: Sherlock’s just standing there, covering his eyes and howling while Mycroft tugs him every which way to get his suit off. “I haaaaaaa’de i’d!” he cries over and over. “Iiiiiii haaaaaaaaa’de iiiiiiii’d!” “And I hate doing this,” Mycroft grunts over a stubborn zipper. “I’d much rather let you play outside.” “I’ll y’eave i’d on, I’ll y’eave it on, p’eeeeeease!’
squeakpigsrevenge: “If you’ve learned you lesson, we can try again after nap.” “Nooooo, My’g. P’eeeeeaaase. No na’b.” Mycroft finally gets the zipper down and the whole puff of scruffy fabric pools at the baby’s feet.
sadieandmo: Sherlock wails the most heartbroken wail ever wailed as Mycroft drapes him over one knee and pushes down the seat of his Peppa Pig thermals. Greg’s been watching the whole scene from the doorway, hand over his mouth to keep from grinning because while they had the most dramatic toddler on the planet in their hands, it was still fucking adorable. Mycroft rolls his eyes at him and starts to ruck Sherlock’s nappy down in the back…but second thoughts gave him pause. ..Plus, he just didn’t have to energy to remove one more inconvenient layer after wrestling a whole snowsuit off of a giant child.
squeakpigsrevenge: The first whap against his nappy startled him quiet. But by five he was bawling like he’d been skinned alive. “If you can’t listen then there will be consequences.” Greg was making faces at Mycroft for going soft.
sadieandmo: "I y’iten, I y’isten,” Sherlock blubbered over and over in between sobs that would have made one think he’d been getting paddle on the bare, rather than a few half-hearted swats over his nappy. Mycroft made it an even 10 before he sat Sherlock back up on his knee. “Now, you’re going to go take a nap before we try going outside again, and I don’t want to hear any fuss about it,” Mycroft said, wagging his finger in his baby brother’s face. Sherlock watched him balefully, with big, fat tears still rolling down his cheeks as he snuffled and hiccuped and hitched. “P’p’p’omi’the,” he snuffled. “Y’y’i’then.” “We’ll see.” Mycroft stood him up; “Go see Uncle Gregory and ask him nicely if he’ll make you a bottle,” he added, and sent Sherlock off with one last swat to his still exposed nappy. Sherlock toddled over to Greg, arms outstretched, still grizzling. “B’ba’ba, G’eg, ba’ba!”
squeakpigsrevenge: Awwwwww sadieandmo: lol, We’ll have to share this This is too fucking cute squeakpigsrevenge: Your bits! sadieandmo: Yours too! squeakpigsrevenge: Your butt! sadieandmo: Your face!
squeakpigsrevenge: Greg wrapped Sherlock in a hug, “Did mean ol’e Myc spank your bum?” Greg cooed, fighting back a laugh and the glower he got from ‘Myc’. “Yeeeeaaaa. My buuuuuum.” “Poor thing, Poor thing. Greg will make you a bottle and we’ll have a rest.” “I jus’ wan’ ou’side.” Mycroft had come up behind the baby and pulled his thermals back over his nappy, “After nap.”
sadieandmo: Sherlock’s face scrunched as Greg lifted him up onto his hip. “I ha’de i’d,” he cried as he laid his head on Greg’s shoulder and scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I ha’de i’d.” “I know, muffin, and I’m sorry,” Greg patted his back while he carried him into the kitchen.“We just want you to stay warm while you’re out in the snow, so you don’t become a little baby’cicle.”
squeakpigsrevenge: “I dun’ wan’ be bay’bee’sci’gle.” “That’s why you need to wear your hat,” Greg kissed his cheek. “I ha’de haaaaa’ds.” “Can you sit here while I make your bottle?” “Noooooooo, my buuuuum huuuuur’ds.”
sadieandmo: “What about your feet; do your feet hurt?” “Nuuuu.” “Okay, then let’s do this–” Greg said as he set Sherlock on his feet, “–just until we get your bottle warm. Can you bring me the milk?” Sherlock wrapped himself around Greg’s waist and hid his face, then shook his head ‘no’. “Aw, no?” Greg pet the baby’s hair. “No, you don’t want to be a helper this time?” Sherlock shook his head again. “That’s a shame, you’re always such a good helper. Can you tell me which bottle you want, then?”
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