Nature and Nurture (29/?)
Oct. 16th, 2013 09:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
earlgreytea68Title - Nature and Nurture (29/?)
Author -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
earlgreytea68
Rating - Adult
Characters - Sherlock, John
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - The British Government accidentally clones Sherlock Holmes. Which brings a baby to 221B Baker Street.
Author's Notes - Thank you to hobbitts for permission to use the art in the icon, and to everyone on Twitter who helped name the baby, and to everyone on Tumblr was who was supportive and encouraging while I was going crazy over this, and to arctacuda, who's been reading this over for me and making sure it works and I'm not going crazy, and to flawedamythyst, who took one for the team and made sure that my British sounded, well, a bit more British.
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve - Chapter Thirteen - Chapter Fourteen - Chapter Fifteen - Chapter Sixteen - Chapter Seventeen - Chapter Eighteen - Chapter Nineteen - Chapter Twenty - Chapter Twenty-One - Chapter Twenty-Two - Chapter Twenty-Three - Chapter Twenty-Four - Chapter Twenty-Five - Chapter Twenty-Six - Chapter Twenty-Seven - Chapter Twenty-Eight
Oliver woke in the middle of the night screaming.
He jerked John out of a sound sleep. John was alone in the bed, so Sherlock must still be up, and indeed he heard Sherlock jogging up the stairs toward Oliver, so John yawned and put his head back down on the pillow.
Oliver did not stop crying. Oliver almost always stopped crying as soon as someone picked him up. John waited, wide awake now, listening to Oliver cry and predicting how long it would take Sherlock to change his nappy. Surely Sherlock was more adept at that by this point. But Oliver kept crying.
John rolled out of bed, meeting Sherlock coming down the stairs with a crying Oliver in his arms. Oliver looked rumpled and distressed, his hair sticking up on one side of his head. He was clinging hard to Sherlock and heaving tear-soaked sobs.
“What’s up, Ollie?” John asked him, tenderly, reaching a finger out to brush against Oliver’s hand.
Oliver cried more.
“I changed his nappy,” said Sherlock, looking desperate.
“Maybe he’s hungry,” suggested John, and made Oliver a bottle while Sherlock walked up and down the sitting room with him, trying to interest him in something other than crying.
Oliver refused to take the bottle. Oliver cried heartbrokenly at being offered it, as if despairing of their stupidity in offering him a bottle.
“Maybe he had a bad dream,” said John, concerned, smoothing a hand over Oliver’s head.
Oliver cried and cried.
Sherlock put his lips into Oliver’s hair and breathed out, “Shh, shh. I’ve got you. Look, we’re both right here and we’d never let anything happen to you.”
Oliver appeared to disagree with that.
“The violin, maybe?” said John.
He took the displeased Oliver and Sherlock retrieved his violin and played all of Oliver’s favorite songs. Oliver wailed unhappily, flailing his arms and legs about, and John had a sudden idea.
“Wait a second,” said John. “I think he’s teething.”
“You’ve been saying that for months,” snapped Sherlock, Oliver’s constant cries clearly having him at his wit’s end.
“Well, I was bound to be right sooner or later. Let me see what I’ve got here, Oliver.” John switched on the light in the bathroom and found the teething gel that he’d bought when he’d first thought Oliver had been teething, months ago as Sherlock had said. Oliver apparently had been just a copious drooler. “Here we are,” said John, trying to get at Oliver’s mouth.
Oliver writhed away from him.
Sherlock, watching critically from the bathroom doorway, said, “He doesn’t want it.”
“Because his mouth hurts, he doesn’t want me to touch it.”
“Will that help?”
“Yes.”
“Then he’s being ridiculous. Oliver, stop it, Papa’s trying to help.”
John succeeded in getting a finger against Oliver’s gums as he opened his mouth to wail further displeasure, and Oliver stopped mid-wail, looking surprised and then cautiously optimistic. His grip on John loosened a little bit, and he took a couple of shaky breaths and then blinked between the two of them, looking thoroughly miserable.
“Sorry, love,” John told him, and kissed his head. “It’ll be over soon, I promise.”
“Over soon?” Sherlock echoed. “As if he’s only going to have one tooth?”
“As always, your dad is looking on the bright side,” John told Oliver. “Here,” he said to Sherlock, and handed the baby back over. “He should go back down now. I’m going back to bed.”
John walked into the bedroom and crawled into bed. He had just got himself comfortable when Sherlock walked in, carrying the now quiet Oliver.
“John,” he said, urgently.
“What is it?” John asked, peering up at him in the light spilling from the hallway.
“Are you sure about this?”
“About what?”
“The teething. It just seems like an awful lot of fuss for him to raise over one tooth.”
“Have you ever had a toothache?”
Sherlock looked offended. “Of course not.”
John rolled his eyes. “Of course not. Then hopefully he’ll have perfect teeth, too, but, in the meantime, he has to grow them first, and trust me when I tell you that teeth can hurt out of all proportion to their size.”
Sherlock sounded intrigued. “You’ve had a toothache?”
“Yes. I am disappointingly ordinary that way.”
“Did it hurt more or less than a gunshot wound?”
“Sherlock,” said John, in exasperation.
“Well, it isn’t like I have experience in either domain,” Sherlock sniffed.
“It hurt less than a gunshot wound, and that is the end of this midnight conversation. Go and play Oliver the violin. If he isn’t asleep within five minutes, come and get me and I will happily take Oliver to A&E with you. But he’ll be asleep, because all that was wrong was that his tooth was bothering him and I numbed it for him.”
Sherlock left the bedroom. Then Sherlock came back into the bedroom.
“Sherlock,” sighed John.
“It’s just that he feels warm.”
“First of all, he was just crying up a storm. Second of all, he’s teething, a low-grade fever is perfectly natural.”
“You’re sure he’s not actually sick.”
John heaved another sigh and reached out and pressed a hand to Oliver’s neck. He didn’t feel especially warm to John. Sherlock was panicking. “I’m sure. Even if he were sick, it would probably be nothing more than a cold.”
“And you would be okay with that?” asked Sherlock, sounding disbelieving.
“Sherlock. He’s going to get sick at some point in his life.”
“I don’t get sick,” said Sherlock, loftily.
“Yes, you do. That one winter you had pneumonia, remember?”
“That was because Lestrade pushed me into the Thames.”
“Lestrade didn’t push you in, you fell.”
“I didn’t fall. How would I have fallen into the Thames?”
“The way people fall, Sherlock. By falling.”
“You think there’s a greater likelihood that I fell into the Thames than that I was pushed?”
“No, actually, I think there’s a bloody enormous likelihood of you annoying someone enough that they push you into the Thames but I was there that day and you fell.”
“This is preposterous,” Sherlock sputtered.
“Oliver’s asleep,” remarked John.
Sherlock looked down at Oliver, startled to see that was true.
“See? He’s fine. Go put him in his cot and let me sleep.”
Sherlock left the bedroom. John listened to him go up the stairs to Oliver’s room. And John, who had just been exhausted, stared up at the ceiling, wide awake, his mind whispering at him insidiously.
What if Oliver wasn’t fine? What if he wasn’t just teething? What if there was something seriously wrong with him? What if some sort of switch had been flipped in his clone baby DNA and some terrifying, frightening, quick-moving condition was even now taking him over? And he’d been sobbing about it and they hadn’t understood and John had numbed a bit of the pain and then told Sherlock to put him back to bed?
John tried to shut the voice up. He tried to be logical. Oliver would have symptoms, surely, if something dire was wrong with him. He wouldn’t have gone back to sleep so quickly and easily. He would surely have more of a fever. He had barely had any sort of fever at all. Right? Hadn’t he? He hadn’t felt warm. But John had just woken up. Maybe his own body temperature had been incorrect. Sherlock had thought Oliver felt warm, and Sherlock wasn’t usually prone to hysteria.
Gritting his teeth, John conceded the fact that his brain wasn’t going to let him go back to sleep until he checked on Oliver again. He stopped in the bathroom to grab the thermometer he’d bought for Oliver and then popped his head into the sitting room. He hadn’t heard Sherlock come back down, and the empty sitting room confirmed that.
John went upstairs and into the nursery, where Oliver was sound asleep in his cot and Sherlock was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, watching him.
Sherlock lifted his eyebrows a bit in accusation, which John could see from the room’s nightlight (another bumblebee; Sherlock had insisted). “I thought you said he was fine.”
“Yes. Well. Just checking.”
Sherlock gave him a knowing look that John ignored as he stuck the thermometer into Oliver’s ear. Oliver scrunched up his face in displeasure but didn’t wake and after a second the thermometer beeped with a reading.
“What’s it say?” asked Sherlock.
“37.4. And 37 is normal. So he’s fine.” John, feeling exhausted now that he’d satisfied himself as to Oliver’s well-being, put the thermometer down, contemplated going back downstairs, and instead just sank to the floor next to Sherlock.
“You’re not going back to bed?” Sherlock asked.
John shook his head. “I don’t think I can sleep. I’d rather be here in case he wakes up again. He’s fine, though. Really he is. It’s just…a tooth.” John knew he was right, but he just could not make himself leave Oliver at the moment.
“Should we take him to see Molly tomorrow?”
“I don’t know,” said John, and sighed. “Maybe. Do you think we should?”
“You’re the doctor.”
“And you’re the genius who’s been reading up on cloning.”
Sherlock was silent for a moment. “I think he’s teething.”
“Yes,” agreed John.
“But what if he’s not?”
“Yes,” agreed John, after a second.
There was a moment of silence.
“Lestrade really did push me into the Thames, I didn’t just fall.”
“Oh, my God,” said John, and tipped his head back against the wall and laughed until he cried.
Next Chapter
Author -
earlgreytea68Rating - Adult
Characters - Sherlock, John
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - The British Government accidentally clones Sherlock Holmes. Which brings a baby to 221B Baker Street.
Author's Notes - Thank you to hobbitts for permission to use the art in the icon, and to everyone on Twitter who helped name the baby, and to everyone on Tumblr was who was supportive and encouraging while I was going crazy over this, and to arctacuda, who's been reading this over for me and making sure it works and I'm not going crazy, and to flawedamythyst, who took one for the team and made sure that my British sounded, well, a bit more British.
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve - Chapter Thirteen - Chapter Fourteen - Chapter Fifteen - Chapter Sixteen - Chapter Seventeen - Chapter Eighteen - Chapter Nineteen - Chapter Twenty - Chapter Twenty-One - Chapter Twenty-Two - Chapter Twenty-Three - Chapter Twenty-Four - Chapter Twenty-Five - Chapter Twenty-Six - Chapter Twenty-Seven - Chapter Twenty-Eight
Oliver woke in the middle of the night screaming.
He jerked John out of a sound sleep. John was alone in the bed, so Sherlock must still be up, and indeed he heard Sherlock jogging up the stairs toward Oliver, so John yawned and put his head back down on the pillow.
Oliver did not stop crying. Oliver almost always stopped crying as soon as someone picked him up. John waited, wide awake now, listening to Oliver cry and predicting how long it would take Sherlock to change his nappy. Surely Sherlock was more adept at that by this point. But Oliver kept crying.
John rolled out of bed, meeting Sherlock coming down the stairs with a crying Oliver in his arms. Oliver looked rumpled and distressed, his hair sticking up on one side of his head. He was clinging hard to Sherlock and heaving tear-soaked sobs.
“What’s up, Ollie?” John asked him, tenderly, reaching a finger out to brush against Oliver’s hand.
Oliver cried more.
“I changed his nappy,” said Sherlock, looking desperate.
“Maybe he’s hungry,” suggested John, and made Oliver a bottle while Sherlock walked up and down the sitting room with him, trying to interest him in something other than crying.
Oliver refused to take the bottle. Oliver cried heartbrokenly at being offered it, as if despairing of their stupidity in offering him a bottle.
“Maybe he had a bad dream,” said John, concerned, smoothing a hand over Oliver’s head.
Oliver cried and cried.
Sherlock put his lips into Oliver’s hair and breathed out, “Shh, shh. I’ve got you. Look, we’re both right here and we’d never let anything happen to you.”
Oliver appeared to disagree with that.
“The violin, maybe?” said John.
He took the displeased Oliver and Sherlock retrieved his violin and played all of Oliver’s favorite songs. Oliver wailed unhappily, flailing his arms and legs about, and John had a sudden idea.
“Wait a second,” said John. “I think he’s teething.”
“You’ve been saying that for months,” snapped Sherlock, Oliver’s constant cries clearly having him at his wit’s end.
“Well, I was bound to be right sooner or later. Let me see what I’ve got here, Oliver.” John switched on the light in the bathroom and found the teething gel that he’d bought when he’d first thought Oliver had been teething, months ago as Sherlock had said. Oliver apparently had been just a copious drooler. “Here we are,” said John, trying to get at Oliver’s mouth.
Oliver writhed away from him.
Sherlock, watching critically from the bathroom doorway, said, “He doesn’t want it.”
“Because his mouth hurts, he doesn’t want me to touch it.”
“Will that help?”
“Yes.”
“Then he’s being ridiculous. Oliver, stop it, Papa’s trying to help.”
John succeeded in getting a finger against Oliver’s gums as he opened his mouth to wail further displeasure, and Oliver stopped mid-wail, looking surprised and then cautiously optimistic. His grip on John loosened a little bit, and he took a couple of shaky breaths and then blinked between the two of them, looking thoroughly miserable.
“Sorry, love,” John told him, and kissed his head. “It’ll be over soon, I promise.”
“Over soon?” Sherlock echoed. “As if he’s only going to have one tooth?”
“As always, your dad is looking on the bright side,” John told Oliver. “Here,” he said to Sherlock, and handed the baby back over. “He should go back down now. I’m going back to bed.”
John walked into the bedroom and crawled into bed. He had just got himself comfortable when Sherlock walked in, carrying the now quiet Oliver.
“John,” he said, urgently.
“What is it?” John asked, peering up at him in the light spilling from the hallway.
“Are you sure about this?”
“About what?”
“The teething. It just seems like an awful lot of fuss for him to raise over one tooth.”
“Have you ever had a toothache?”
Sherlock looked offended. “Of course not.”
John rolled his eyes. “Of course not. Then hopefully he’ll have perfect teeth, too, but, in the meantime, he has to grow them first, and trust me when I tell you that teeth can hurt out of all proportion to their size.”
Sherlock sounded intrigued. “You’ve had a toothache?”
“Yes. I am disappointingly ordinary that way.”
“Did it hurt more or less than a gunshot wound?”
“Sherlock,” said John, in exasperation.
“Well, it isn’t like I have experience in either domain,” Sherlock sniffed.
“It hurt less than a gunshot wound, and that is the end of this midnight conversation. Go and play Oliver the violin. If he isn’t asleep within five minutes, come and get me and I will happily take Oliver to A&E with you. But he’ll be asleep, because all that was wrong was that his tooth was bothering him and I numbed it for him.”
Sherlock left the bedroom. Then Sherlock came back into the bedroom.
“Sherlock,” sighed John.
“It’s just that he feels warm.”
“First of all, he was just crying up a storm. Second of all, he’s teething, a low-grade fever is perfectly natural.”
“You’re sure he’s not actually sick.”
John heaved another sigh and reached out and pressed a hand to Oliver’s neck. He didn’t feel especially warm to John. Sherlock was panicking. “I’m sure. Even if he were sick, it would probably be nothing more than a cold.”
“And you would be okay with that?” asked Sherlock, sounding disbelieving.
“Sherlock. He’s going to get sick at some point in his life.”
“I don’t get sick,” said Sherlock, loftily.
“Yes, you do. That one winter you had pneumonia, remember?”
“That was because Lestrade pushed me into the Thames.”
“Lestrade didn’t push you in, you fell.”
“I didn’t fall. How would I have fallen into the Thames?”
“The way people fall, Sherlock. By falling.”
“You think there’s a greater likelihood that I fell into the Thames than that I was pushed?”
“No, actually, I think there’s a bloody enormous likelihood of you annoying someone enough that they push you into the Thames but I was there that day and you fell.”
“This is preposterous,” Sherlock sputtered.
“Oliver’s asleep,” remarked John.
Sherlock looked down at Oliver, startled to see that was true.
“See? He’s fine. Go put him in his cot and let me sleep.”
Sherlock left the bedroom. John listened to him go up the stairs to Oliver’s room. And John, who had just been exhausted, stared up at the ceiling, wide awake, his mind whispering at him insidiously.
What if Oliver wasn’t fine? What if he wasn’t just teething? What if there was something seriously wrong with him? What if some sort of switch had been flipped in his clone baby DNA and some terrifying, frightening, quick-moving condition was even now taking him over? And he’d been sobbing about it and they hadn’t understood and John had numbed a bit of the pain and then told Sherlock to put him back to bed?
John tried to shut the voice up. He tried to be logical. Oliver would have symptoms, surely, if something dire was wrong with him. He wouldn’t have gone back to sleep so quickly and easily. He would surely have more of a fever. He had barely had any sort of fever at all. Right? Hadn’t he? He hadn’t felt warm. But John had just woken up. Maybe his own body temperature had been incorrect. Sherlock had thought Oliver felt warm, and Sherlock wasn’t usually prone to hysteria.
Gritting his teeth, John conceded the fact that his brain wasn’t going to let him go back to sleep until he checked on Oliver again. He stopped in the bathroom to grab the thermometer he’d bought for Oliver and then popped his head into the sitting room. He hadn’t heard Sherlock come back down, and the empty sitting room confirmed that.
John went upstairs and into the nursery, where Oliver was sound asleep in his cot and Sherlock was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, watching him.
Sherlock lifted his eyebrows a bit in accusation, which John could see from the room’s nightlight (another bumblebee; Sherlock had insisted). “I thought you said he was fine.”
“Yes. Well. Just checking.”
Sherlock gave him a knowing look that John ignored as he stuck the thermometer into Oliver’s ear. Oliver scrunched up his face in displeasure but didn’t wake and after a second the thermometer beeped with a reading.
“What’s it say?” asked Sherlock.
“37.4. And 37 is normal. So he’s fine.” John, feeling exhausted now that he’d satisfied himself as to Oliver’s well-being, put the thermometer down, contemplated going back downstairs, and instead just sank to the floor next to Sherlock.
“You’re not going back to bed?” Sherlock asked.
John shook his head. “I don’t think I can sleep. I’d rather be here in case he wakes up again. He’s fine, though. Really he is. It’s just…a tooth.” John knew he was right, but he just could not make himself leave Oliver at the moment.
“Should we take him to see Molly tomorrow?”
“I don’t know,” said John, and sighed. “Maybe. Do you think we should?”
“You’re the doctor.”
“And you’re the genius who’s been reading up on cloning.”
Sherlock was silent for a moment. “I think he’s teething.”
“Yes,” agreed John.
“But what if he’s not?”
“Yes,” agreed John, after a second.
There was a moment of silence.
“Lestrade really did push me into the Thames, I didn’t just fall.”
“Oh, my God,” said John, and tipped his head back against the wall and laughed until he cried.
Next Chapter
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2013-10-17 01:59 am (UTC)I'd pay good money to see Lestrade push Sherlock into the Thames. ;-)
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Date: 2013-11-06 04:41 am (UTC)And there are times when John would definitely agree with you on that point!
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Date: 2013-10-17 03:01 am (UTC)(I think I laughed almost as much as John over the being pushed thing, too. ;D)
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Date: 2013-11-06 04:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-06 06:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-17 03:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-08 04:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-17 09:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-08 04:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-17 10:16 am (UTC)“Lestrade didn’t push you in, you fell.”
“I didn’t fall. How would I have fallen into the Thames?”
“The way people fall, Sherlock. By falling.”"
I loved the dual arguments going on here - fall/push and teething/more serious!
You described probably every parent's first nightmare because the crying won't stop . . . clone he may be, but he's still a (gorgeous!) baby.
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Date: 2013-11-08 04:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-17 12:32 pm (UTC)Oh the paranoia of having a new baby. It's worse for Sherlock and John because of Ollie's conception but I'm sure it's just a tooth coming in. Poor baby, they need to get him a teether.
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Date: 2013-11-08 04:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-17 05:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-08 05:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-18 07:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-12 04:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-19 12:22 am (UTC)And I'd actually believe that Lestrade pushed Sherlock into the Thames, if only Sherlock wasn't so adamant that that's what happened. XD
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Date: 2013-11-12 05:00 am (UTC)And yes, Sherlock's adamance does rather give that away. ;-)
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Date: 2013-10-20 12:41 am (UTC)It must be horrible for him and he must feel so helpless, maybe more than other parents. Because he can usually see right through everyone and everything in seconds but he can't deduce what is so important to him now, the reason why his baby cries.
“Shh, shh. I’ve got you. Look, we’re both right here and we’d never let anything happen to you."
Oliver appeared to disagree with that.
He must remember the blood test!
“Over soon?” Sherlock echoed. “As if he’s only going to have one tooth?”
Well, you never know. He's a clone after all. (I'm joking to play down the situation, okay? :D)
Sherlock left the bedroom. Then Sherlock came back into the bedroom.
*giggles* Poor Sherlock. I know I shouldn't be giggling but...
“No, actually, I think there’s a bloody enormous likelihood of you annoying someone enough that they push you into the Thames but I was there that day and you fell.”
*giggles more* Now, could you please stop saying the word "fall"? It makes me nervous. :D
*reads the paragraph about John angsting in his bed*
*metaphorically puts her fingers in her ears*
No no no no no. Nothing like that for Oliver.
Sherlock was silent for a moment. “I think he’s teething.”
“Yes,” agreed John.
“But what if he’s not?”
“Yes,” agreed John, after a second.
Thank you SO MUCH for not stopping the chapter here! Because it would have been too ominous. Whereas the to-fall-or-not-to-fall-into-the-Thames banter is a sign that everything will be all right for Olie and he will live a long and happy life, isn't it? ISN'T IT? Anyway, poor Sherlock and John. When you think of all the infant diseases in store for them...
The range of tones in this story and the range of emotions it makes us feel is incredible. The last chapter was so intense (and so hot!) and this one is so domestic and tender, but both make us feel how much Sherlock cares for his family, I mean John and Olie. And some of his lines are so him, like Then he’s being ridiculous. Oliver, stop it, Papa’s trying to help or Did it hurt more or less than a gunshot wound? or I don’t get sick or That was because Lestrade pushed me into the Thames. Brilliant!
no subject
Date: 2013-11-12 05:04 am (UTC)Oh, dear, I hope Oliver doesn't constantly hold the blood test against them!
Poor Sherlock, he's very discombobulated by this entire situation!
Yeah, I did think I needed to lighten up this chapter a bit!
I'm glad that, throughout all the craziness of this fic, Sherlock feels like Sherlock! :-)
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Date: 2013-10-20 05:00 am (UTC)PS. You seem to have acquired an infestation of weight loss spammers. :-(
(Deleted and reposted because of stupidity. Sorry!)
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Date: 2013-11-13 03:51 am (UTC)And yes! Why so much spam all of a sudden??
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Date: 2013-10-21 09:43 pm (UTC)This made me happy. You have really captured that "new parent" anxiety. I love that John experiences this even though he is a doctor. I enjoyed the bit about Sherlock and whether he fell or was pushed into the Thames.
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Date: 2013-11-20 04:13 am (UTC)