Kidlock

Mycroft Finds Out

The day went quickly downhill from there.

Deciding that their usual takeaway would be nutritionally imprudent for a toddler, John had tried to prepare lunch himself. This may have been a bad idea. He was only a marginal cook to begin with, and the frequent distractions of having to stop Sherlock from grabbing, destroying, deducing or eating anything toxic, dangerous, or just plain disgusting really didn't help matters any.

He was trying to make Sherlock relinquish his grip on an antique speculum that had somehow found its way into the flat when the smoke detector suddenly went. "Shit!" John had left some baby carrots steaming on the stove. The pot was now burned dry, smoke billowing up to the ceiling. John grabbed the handle, burnt himself, cursed, dropped it, found and donned an oven glove, and finally pitched the whole smouldering lot into the sink. Charred pot and cindery carrots hissed explosively as they hit the murky dishwater.

Next he grabbed a tea towel and flapped it frantically underneath the smoke detector. As if its ear-splitting racket weren't enough, Sherlock was now chiming in with his trademark shriek: apparently he found the detector's noise upsetting. Imagine that. Detector and detective wailed and shrieked at top volume; a perfect harmony of aural torture. John's temples throbbed. He wondered about the medical logistics of taking paracetamol intravenously.

Eventually, finally, the detector ceased its wailing. John tossed the tea towel aside just as his mobile rang. He looked at the screen, hoping it was Molly with news about the antidote…and couldn't tell who the caller was, because the display was in bloody Turkish.

The ringtone sounded again, which triggered another piercing shriek from London's only consulting detective…what, now any noise was upsetting? "Hush, Sherlock." John fiddled with the buttons on his mobile, trying to force his phone to make sense again. Nothing worked. It rang again. Sherlock screamed again. The terrier down in 222A got upset by all the noise and started barking, and Sherlock screamed at that, too. "Sherlock, be quiet! Please - " John squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the phone against his forehead. Ringing phone; screaming baby; barking dog. Lather, rinse, repeat. It was too much. He lost his patience for a vital split-second, and when Sherlock screamed again, John leant down and screamed right back at him to see how he liked it.

If John had expected any reaction at all, it would have been a look of cool distaste: a smugly superior eyebrow; a condescending grunt...a look that said, "oh John, really, how vulgar." Failing that, a louder, shriller counter-scream seemed the most likely response. Those things would not have surprised John Watson at all. But he absolutely did not expect what happened next.

Sherlock Holmes burst into tears.

His tiny face crumpled into a wavering howl of distress. The dummy dropped from his mouth and he put his little hands over his eyes, as though he could make the scary monster go away if he simply couldn't see him anymore.

John blinked dumbly. "Oh…oh, mate. I'm sorry." He knelt down, making his voice gentle. "I'm so sorry." John was used to Sherlock towering over him, both physically and intellectually. It was alarmingly easy to forget that this little version of Sherlock Holmes, with all his brilliant oddness, was still just a two-year-old baby.

Carefully, John put a hand on Sherlock's back. Much like the adult version, baby Sherlock didn't tolerate much physical contact, but he did seem to like having his back rubbed.