A Sadie: Oh boy howdy this my jam. 😛

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.”