Tag: Sherlock ageplay fiction

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?

If prompts are still open, I have one for you— how about some sort of interaction between Mycroft and little Sherlock? Bonus points if there is brotherly arguing that John has to break up (extra extra bonus points if there’s threats of spankings LOL). Please and thank you!

Sadie: You have NO idea how much I love it when people request other characters popping in! 🙂 Here we go!

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It had been going on for at least ten minutes and, quite frankly, while John was impressed that Mycroft could get a forty-going-on-two year old to sit still for that long, he wasn’t actually that surprised.

Nothing surprised him about the Holmes’ brothers anymore.

John didn’t know how the staring contest came about. All he knew was that it had been eerily quiet for he-couldn’t-rightly-recall-how-long before he’d started to wonder why Sherlock was no longer jabbering about the buttons along Mycroft’s new waistcoat and where they’d come from, nor about the technique used to sew them on when he looked up to find the overgrown tyke sitting in his brother’s lap, nearly nose-to-nose, staring him right in the eye.

John quietly set the timer on his phone, and sat back to watch.

Sherlock continued to stare intently at his older brother, unblinking, still as a statue…save for an occasional flutter from the dummy in his mouth.

Mycroft stared right back, equally as dilligent, and for a moment, John considered that they were not, in fact, having a staring contest, but were involved in an all-consuming war of the minds on a far-away, unseen plane of existence.

Sherlock stared.

Mycroft stared.

The clock ticked.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, and stared.

Mycroft took a deep breath, stared…then crossed his eyes and pressed his lips together and puffed out his cheeks like a trumpet player.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide as he startled back from his brother but, even from across the room, John could already see the slow, sneaky smile playing from behind his dummy as the little detective started to break down into giggles, just as his brother had planned.

“I saw that.”

Quick as a flash, the face was gone. “You saw nothing.”

John only grinned back at him.

“In any case, I won.”

The giggling stopped almost instantly. “Nu-uh!” Sherlock protested, glaring at him with all the impotent, infant fury he could muster.

“You closed your eyes.”

“Did n’ah!”

“Did so.”

Sherlock pouted, and shook his head.

Mycroft smirked, and nodded.

Sherlock’s chest puffed out indignantly and John braced himself for the inevitable, ear-splitting shriek that was surely brewing just beneath the adorable, baby-faced surface, when Sherlock decided to surprise the both of them…and turned his dummy into a projectile missile by spitting it right in Mycroft’s face hard enough to make an audible THACK! as it hit him between the eyes.

Mycroft cried out and reeled back as he reached up to rub the sizable red mark that it had left. “Sherlock!!!”

“You c’osed your eyes,” the little detective sneered back.

John rolled his eyes and picked up his phone…huh, fifteen minutes before they’d lit into each other. That was a rec-…well, not necessarily a record, but it was at least in the top ten.

‘Nope, not surprising at all,’ John thought, then sighed as he heaved himself out of his chair to go break up the War of the Whingers before it ended with a little nappy-wearing someone in tears.

What about tiny baby Jawn getting stung by a bee, because he was trying to pick it up to show Da’? He knows how much Da’ likes bees. 🐝

Sadie: You guys sure love some little Jawn! Poor Sher’yock would be jealous! :p

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Jawn was the luckiest little boy in the world. At least he felt that way, when he had the great fortune to notice when the biggest, fattest, fluffiest-looking bumblebee that he’d ever seen slowly buzz through Nana’s open window, land on one of the prettiest red blooms in the flower box sitting on the sill, and begin to fill it’s little leg bags with bright yellow pollen.

He had to show Da’; he would think it was brilliant!

“Da’!” Jawn looked over his shoulder, where Sherlock was on his knees in front of Nana’s refrigerator, attempting to fix the ‘blasted motor’ while Nana herself stood behind his shoulder, tutting over everything. “Come see!” he chattered. “DA’!!!”

“Give me a moment, Jawn,” Sherlock replied without turning around, in the funny-sounding way he did when he was mad, but didn’t want anyone to know it.

‘Cept Jawn knew it. Well…most of the time he did.

Nana was nicer. “He’s almost done,sweetheart,” she said, looking back at Jawn with a smile. “Then you can help Nana bake up some biscuits, yes?”

Jawn pouted and turned back to the flower box, where his new, pudgy little friend was still sitting and rubbing itself. Herself. Jawn remembered Da’ saying something about how all the bees they ever saw were s’posed to be girls. That was prob’ly why they liked flowers so much.

The little bee buzzed her wings, and for a second, Jawn became afraid that she would take off and fly away before Da’ could ever see her!…but no, she didn’t. She only walked to another spot and started rubbing herself again.

Jawn blew out a breath between his lips; that had been close. It would be so sad if Da’ missed seeing the prettiest bee in the world just because he was busy, and it would probl’y make him even grumpier than he already was.

Well,if Da’ wouldn’t come see her…Jawn would just have to take her to see Da’.

He reached out slowly so he wouldn’t scare her off, then cupped his hands around the bottom of the flower, closed them together, and lifted until he felt the bloom pop free from the stem.

He felt her wings brushing the palm of his hand, making him giggle, and he turned around to hurry and show off his little living treasure.

Jawn was halfway to the kitchen when he stopped. And by ‘stopped’, everything stopped; Jawn stopped, Jawn’s giggling stopped, the tickly feeling of the bee’s wings stopped…

…because Jawn felt her stinger stabbing directly in the center of his left palm.

Jawn cried out and flung his hands apart, dropping both the flower and his bee to the ground, where it stumbled around drunkenly on the carpet, wings beating furiously. Jawn sank to the ground as well, howling and clutching his hand as deep, ugly burning sensation spread from his palm out to his fingers.

Before he knew it, both Nana and his Da’ were thereat his side, hovering over him and asking him all sorts of questions that he couldn’t hear, nor did he care about when his hand hurt SO bad! All he could do was clutch it and cry while Da’ sat in a chair and scooped Jawn up into his lap, and Nana tried to pry his hand open.

It was no simple feat, but between the two of them, they finally managed to get Jawn’s chubby little fingers outstretched. “Is that a thorn?” she asked Sherlock over the wailing.

Sherlock brought Jawn’s hand close and narrowed his eyes…”No, that’s not a thorn,” he said finally and, with Nana helping hold Jawn still, scraped the thick stinger out of the little boy’s hand with his thumbnail.”Bring me some ice, please?”

Nana scurried off, worrying and fretting, and Sherlock cuddled Jawn close. “What were you doing catching a bee for, little man?” he asked, rubbing his thumb in a circle around Jawn’s palm while applying gentle pressure.

“Sh-sh-show, sh-show y-you,” Jawn stammered in between deep, hitching sobs. 

“Oh, love…” Sherlock sighed. He’d noticed the discarded flower now, and just a few inches away, the still body of the now-dead bee. He turned Jawn away, and used his foot to push them both aside, out of sight; now was not the time to remind the little doctor what happened to bees that had to use their stingers. “It was an accident,” he shushed. “You both gave each other a scare, that’s all.”

Nana came back with a small bag of ice and a hand towel and soon, with two people fussing and kissing over him, the worst of the tears abated, and all that was left was a snuffly little boy with a slightly swollen hand. “Didn’ mean’a scare her,” he sniffed.

Sherlock lifted Jawn’s ice-wrapped hand to his lips, and kissed the heel of it. “I know. But that’s why it’s best to leave them alone when you come across them, darling…they don’t always know what you’re intending to do with them.”

“Y’yeah,” Jawn answered, and held his hand up for more.

Sherlock chuckled and obliged, kissing  the knuckles of each one of Jawn’s fingers. “Leave the bee-hunting to Da’ from now on, hm?”

Jawn nodded quickly. He was in no hurry to make the acquaintance of any more bees for a good, long while.

“Poor love!” Nana cooed, and brushed the hair back out of his eyes
and cupped his cheek. “What else can we do?” she asked Sherlock. “Doesn’t it say somewhere tobacco is supposed to help?”

“That’s an old wives tale. Ice is fine.”

“Are you sure–”

“I’m not sacrificing a cigarette for a placebo.”

Nana huffed; that answer was far from satisfactory, as far as when it came to one of her special boys being hurt. “What would make you feel better, sweetheart?”

Jawn thought for a moment; “…Biscuits?” he ventured.

“Oh, yes!” Nana clapped her hands together cheerfully; that, she could do! “You still want to help Nana make them?”

Jawn settled back
against his Da’; he didn’t feel up to doing much of anything right now.
Well, almost anything. “I help when done.”

“When they’re done?…” Nana puzzled.

Jawn nodded. “I help eat them.”

Sherlock snorted of the sound of Nana’s giggling, and muttered something that Jawn didn’t quite catch about making ‘something else’ sting.

I hope prompts are still open! Would love to see Sherlock get a richly deserved spanking from Daddy John, followed by some adorable cuddles!

Sadie:

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John stared at the cursor at the top of the page. He’d been staring at it for awhile now as it blinked at him, the rest of the page depressingly blank.

The longer he stared, the more mocking it seemed. He frowned.

Then, just as he was getting ready to type a great, big, bold, fancy-scripted ‘FUCK’  right in the middle of the page, just for something to look at, there was a tug on his trouser leg. “…Da’yee?”

John stopped and looked down, all too glad for an excuse to turn away from the screen.

Sherlock sat up on his knees and stared up at him with big, curious eyes and the soft expression he always had whenever he fell back into his little space.

John couldn’t help but smile, and marvel at how he had the cutest little boy in the world. “What, love?” he asked fondly, and reached down to pinch Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock squeaked and pulled away from John’s fingers, but John could definitely see the edges of a huge smile peeking around the dummy that was forever planted in the little detective’s mouth. “N’ah pin’sh!” he giggled.

John chuckled, as well. “But they’re so pinchable!” he said and pretended to go for it again, then laughed as Sherlock fell backwards to avoid him. “Silly boy…what did you need Daddy for?”

Sherlock sat back up on his knees, and leaned onto John’s lap. “Fir’thy?” he said, making it a question, and blinked up at him.

“You’re thirsty?”

Sherlock nodded. “P’eathe?”

John grinned, and ruffled his fingers through Sherlocks’ hair. Truthfully, he was glad for an excuse to put his computer aside…and he’d rather play with the baby, anyway. “Sure,” he said as he did just that; he turned his laptop off and waited for it to shut down, then put it aside and stood. “You know what, your Da’ wants a cuppa too. You sit there and play, love, and I’ll be right back.”

Minutes later, John returned to find Sherlock still playing quietly on the floor with his big bucket of magnetic building pieces that Nana had bought for him ages ago. But when the little detective finally noticed John come in and sit back down with two cups in his hands, there was no more ‘quiet’ about anything. Abandoning his toys, Sherlock scurried over to John and started to climb into the chair with him, jabbering away. “Mine?! Mine cup?! Mine, p’eashe?!”

“Wait, wait…!” John barely had time to put down the very hot, bordering-on-scalding cup of tea before Sherlock settled himself squarely into his lap. “Jesus, child,” he muttered, and handed Sherlock a brightly coloured sippy-cup. “There, there’s your cup. What do you say?”

“Fank’oo!” Sherlock babbled, and let his dummy fall right out of his mouth as he opened wide and began to suck down the contents of his cup with fervor.

John watched with a raised eyebrow, then shook his head and reached for his tea. But before he could take that first glorious sip, though, he noticed that Sherlock had suddenly gone still. John looked again; the little detective was now frowning at the cup in his hands. “What’s the matter?”

“Is juice,” Sherlock fussed, as if an awful trick had been played on him.

“Very good, you’re right…that’s juice.”

“I wan’ tea.”

“No, you are not getting tea.”

“Bu’ I wan’ some!” Sherlock pouted. “P’ease?”

“No, love. Drink your juice.” John turned back to his tea.

Sherlock’s frown only deepened. He didn’t want juice; he wanted tea. Specifically, he wanted Daddys’ tea. He let his cup drop from his hands and hit the floor with a loud thud.

Now it was John’s turn to look unhappy. “Sherlock.”

“Tea, p’ease? P’ease, Daddy? Tea? P’ease, p’ease tea? P’ease?!” 

“I said no.”

“Da’, p’ease?!” Sherlock begged…he was growing desperate now. He’d asked nicely, just the way Daddy always told him to, and he still wasn’t getting anywhere. “I nee’ it!”

“ Sherlock, stop.” John knew full well that Sherlock could be a persistent little boy when he had his mind set on something, but this was getting ridiculous.

“Bu’ I nee’ it!!” Sherlock whinged again, and reached for John’s cup himself.

Nope, John was not playing this game. Not with a steaming hot cup in his hands.”Okay, if that’s how it’s going to be…” He put his tea aside and scooted Sherlock off his lap and onto the floor. “You can just stay down there.”

Sherlock gaped up at him, surprised…and then the show really started. “NO, Da’! Up, I wan’ up! Up, back up now, p’ease!? Up, back up…!” Sherlock turned and tried to push his way back into John’s lap, all reaching arms and pushing legs, never once stopping to take a breath in the midst begging for either tea, or ‘back up’.

John ignored him, ignored all of it…until the top of Sherlock’s head bumped against the bottom of his tea, nearly upsetting it all over the both of them. “Shit!” John swore as he felt it tip in his hands, and quickly held it out of the way of grasping, clutching hands. Jesus Christ, that had been too close! “Oi!” he snapped over the nonstop whinging,and once again set his tea aside. “You want back in my lap, I’ll put you back in my lap!” John scooted to the edge of his seat, spread his legs and, after taking Sherlock by the shoulders, hauled him up and over his knee, effectively pinning both arms to his sides. 

The sheer speed of it all shocked the little detective into silence…silence that lasted all of two seconds, before he felt John’s hand yanking the back of his nappy down. The panic set in as a wisp of cool air hit his bared backside, and Sherlock began to beg again…but for a completely different reason. “No, don’!…p’ease don’, I sawry, Da’yee, p’ease’top!” he pleaded and tried to wiggle out of John’s grip, to no avail. “P’ease’top, I be good, p’omise! P’ease p’ease p’ease p’ease no no no no no–ow!”

A sharp smack put an abrupt end to the line of babbling. “When Daddy says ‘no’, he means ‘no’…not ‘keep going until you get what you want’!” John scolded, and lit into Sherlock’s bottom with a flurry of sharp, stinging slaps that took the little detective’s breath away.

Momentarily, at least. The spanking was well under way and had Sherlock’s bottom turning a good, rosy glow when the pain caught up and overtook the shock it had been to his system, and the little detective began to howl. No matter how much he wriggled, or squirmed, or kicked, there was no getting out of the firm hold John had him in, and soon enough…he simply gave up as smack after burning smack set his backside on fire.

The spanking was brief, but that didn’t mean that it was any less painful or effective. When he felt Sherlock go limp over his knee, John stopped and left his hand resting against his scorched seat, while the little detective continued to sob. “Are we ready to listen to Daddy now?”  he asked, waiting to see if Sherlock had even heard him.

“Uh-h-hu-huh,” Sherlock stammered. “N-nn-no, n-no m-mmooore, p-p’eeeasssse!”

That was enough to satisfy John. He let Sherlock go, and allowed him to slide to the floor to nurse his wounds (and his pride).

Sherlock melted into a big, weepy puddle and lay crying on the carpet, while reaching back with one hand to rub some of the sting away. “I, I, I j-jus, I j-jus’ wan’ned teeeeaaa,”  he wailed.

‘Oh, my God…’  John rolled his eyes and put his head and his hands. Even after all of that, and he was stilll going on about tea! Yeah, and he’d thought Sherlock was persistent before?! This was just…this was a whole new level.

Despite himself, John began to chuckle. “Sherlock…no, Sherlock, come here, love,” he said and sat up, trying not to laugh in his face. He held his arms out for his completely exasperating, but much cherished little weepy baby. “Come see Daddy.”

Sherlock sat up slowly and tried to wipe the tears away from his face with the heel of his hand. “N-no, n-no m-more?” he stuttered, his chest hitching.

“No more, sweetheart. Daddy wants to hold.” While John was stooped over and waiting, he went ahead and retrieved Sherlock’s previously abandoned sippy-cup, and stuck it between the cushion and the chair.

Sherlock crawled over and let John lift him into his lap, where he was tucked into the crook of his arm. Sherlock curled in close, sniffling.

John smiled, and bent down to kiss his forehead. “You know Daddy didn’t spank you just for wanting tea, don’t you?”

“N-no?” Sherlock sniffed, blinking up at him. 

“No.” John took Sherlock’s sippy-cup and offered it to him…and this time, the little detective took it. “No, you got spanked because those little beggar-child antics of yours nearly gave us both third degree burns.”

Sherlock lowered his eyes and stared down at his cup, unable to look at John. “Oh,” he said quietly. 

“Yeah, ‘oh’.” John gave him a squeeze. “I don’t mind you askin’, love. I don’t even mind you beggin’…but can we do that without knocking stuff out of my hands, please? The A&E’s going to start charging us rent soon.”

Sherlock looked back up at him with a watery smile and a quiet giggle. “Yeah,” he said, his voice raspy.

“That’s not something to be proud of.” John peered down at him with an arched eyebrow. “…Can I finish my tea in peace now?”

Sherlock nodded and, just to show that he would be trustworthy, latched onto his cup and drank his juice, just like a good boy.

John looked skeptical, but decided to take his chances. He picked up his mug back up and took a big sip, then grimaced…

His tea had gone cold.

“…Can I ha’b some now?”