Nature and Nurture (50/57)
Mar. 19th, 2014 09:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
earlgreytea68Title - Nature and Nurture (50/57)
Author -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
earlgreytea68
Rating - Teen
Characters - Sherlock, John
Spoilers - Through "His Last Vow"
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 - Chapter Twenty-Nine - Chapter Thirty - Chapter Thirty-One - Chapter Thirty-Two - Chapter Thirty-Three - Chapter Thirty-Four - Chapter Thirty-Five - Chapter Thirty-Six - Chapter Thirty-Seven - Chapter Thirty-Eight - Chapter Thirty-Nine - Chapter Forty - Chapter Forty-One - Chapter Forty-Two - Chapter Forty-Three - Chapter Forty-Four - Chapter Forty-Five - Chapter Forty-Six - Chapter Forty-Seven - Chapter Forty-Eight - Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter 50
John curled into the momentary stillness of Sherlock Holmes post-orgasm and said, “You know, it wouldn’t bother me if he preferred chemistry.”
Sherlock didn’t respond.
“Oh, come off it,” said John, and kissed his chest. “I know you’re not sleeping. You only sleep after sex when you’re getting the flu.”
“John, if he wants to be a doctor, I think that would be a good thing.”
“So would I. I’m just saying that you seem to be very hopeful that he follow in my footsteps, and I find that very sweet of you, but I actually wouldn’t care.” Yes, it was nice, John thought, but he genuinely didn’t mind if Oliver wanted to be a chemist like Sherlock. “I don’t doubt my influence on him. I don’t feel superfluous.”
“I didn’t think you did,” said Sherlock.
And said nothing else.
John sighed. “This is going to be one of those conversations, is it? Where you make me work hard for every little nugget of information?”
“You knew it was going to be. That’s why you waited until we were together in the dark.”
“Habit,” said John. “Do you know how many habits I’ve developed with you, Sherlock Holmes?”
“Yes,” answered Sherlock, without hesitation. “I keep track of all of them.”
“In your mind palace?” asked John, curiously.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Is there a whole room devoted to my habits?”
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “It’s a lovely little gallery with French windows to a garden. Very bright. The sun shines in. It’s a little like the light in the south of France.”
John was momentarily surprised. “Really?”
“Yes, really. What did you think?”
“It’s an actual palace, your mind palace.”
“That’s why it’s called that, John.” Sherlock sounded irritated.
John was fascinated. “So my habits are in a sun-drenched gallery. Where’s the rest of me?”
“You’re the west wing,” said Sherlock.
“I’m a whole wing.”
“Of course you are. And Oliver’s the north wing.”
“And what about the knowledge you use to solve actual crimes?”
“South wing.”
“What’s in the east wing?”
“The east wing’s closed,” said Sherlock, shortly.
“Ah,” said John, and kissed his chest again and let it slide.
He thought Sherlock wouldn’t say anything else, but after a while Sherlock spoke again. “I didn’t think about becoming anything but a chemist. Ever. That was what I wanted. From the time I could understand that adults had careers. I wanted to be a chemist.”
“You’re not a chemist,” John pointed out, after a moment.
“No. Then Carl Powers died and the police were rude to me and I thought, ‘I’ll show them, I’m going to solve every sodding crime in the book.’”
“Of course you did.”
“But I liked it. I like it. I do. I can’t imagine doing something else. My parents didn’t approve of it, ever, but by then they were able to dismiss it as just another sign of my sociopathic tendencies. So when I went to university, what did I study? I studied chemistry.” Sherlock fell silent.
John thought of Sherlock’s chemist parents, of Sherlock wanting to be some sort of detective and of studying chemistry at university nevertheless in an effort to please them. “Well, it’s come in handy, hasn’t it?” he said, to try to lighten the tone.
“Yes. But I want Oliver to have the entire world open to him. I don’t want him to pick chemistry because it’s mine. I don’t even know if it is mine, to be completely honest. I’m good at it but I would have been good at anything. Of all the things encoded in my DNA, I’m not sure ‘chemistry’ is one of them. So he should be anything he wants. He should be a doctor if he wants.”
“Or something wildly different.”
“An actor,” said Sherlock.
“A dancer,” teased John.
“Shut up,” said Sherlock.
“A chef,” continued John. “We could use a chef in the family.”
“I agree, a chef is desperately needed.”
“Shut up,” John rejoined, echoing Sherlock, and planted another kiss on his chest, smiling into it. “What if he becomes a bureaucrat?”
“I’ll shoot Mycroft if that happens,” said Sherlock. And then, “We should think harder about Oliver’s mother. So we can answer questions about her.”
“Only lies have details. A wise man told me that.”
“Was it me?”
John chuckled. “No, it was Anderson. Of course it was you.”
“Still. We should come up with something. There are only going to be more questions. You want him to join a playgroup.”
John half-sat up so he could look down at Sherlock, surprised. “What?”
“Oh, don’t even pretend you don’t,” said Sherlock. “I know every thought in this silly little head of yours.” He reached out and tapped John’s head.
John ducked out of his way. “I mentioned that months ago. I haven’t brought it up since.”
“You mentioned it because it’s important to you. You’re not a prattler, you know. You never talk about anything casually. You pretend you do, but everything you bring up is very important to you, otherwise you wouldn’t invest the effort into putting it into words. You don’t see the point of sharing every thought in your head, just the big ones. So you mentioned it, so I remembered it.”
“In the west wing?”
“North, actually. But that’s beside the point.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. If you took him to a playgroup, people would want to know about him.”
“Why? Why couldn’t we just say we adopted him?”
“Because, for obvious reasons, he looks just like me.”
“Right. So we used your sperm and a surrogate.”
“How did we decide on the surrogate?”
“We…picked a name out of a hat?” John finished, lamely.
Sherlock gave him a look. “Point to me.”
“We should just say it’s none of their business. That’s what you would say, anyway.”
Sherlock looked almost startled by the logic of that. “It is what I would say.”
“See? That’s what I mean: Only lies have details. He’s our son. The personal negotiations of our sexual reproduction are our business. Why should we answer any questions at all?”
“You’re right.”
“Oh, damn, I wish you’d let me get my mobile so I could have recorded you saying that.”
“Hilarious,” said Sherlock, as John settled himself back down onto the bed. Sherlock rolled onto his side so he could face him.
“So the playgroup thing,” prompted John.
Sherlock took a deep breath. “I’m not trying to be difficult with you. I just… The world is an impossible place, and we’re going to have to send him out into it soon enough, and can’t we just keep him, for a little while, here with us, safe and sound and happy and loved and just him?”
This, John thought, had far more to do with Sherlock than it had to do with Oliver, but John thought that Oliver was doing just fine and he was willing to give Sherlock time to come around. So John said, “Yes. It’s fine.” And then, “Thank you for tonight.”
Sherlock tipped one corner of his lips up in a smile. “You already did.”
“That was without words. This is with words. Thank you. I needed that.”
“I know you did. I forget that you do. Remind me.”
“I intend to. Even if you do behave like a prat every time.”
“You’d be suspicious if I didn’t.”
“True.” John hesitated, then said, “I think we should tell Lestrade.”
“He knows you need socializing every once in a while. It’s why he goes for pints with you.”
“I think we should tell him about Oliver.” Sherlock didn’t say anything, so John kept talking. “Everyone else knows. He’d keep it a secret. He wouldn’t tell anyone. And it’s putting your brother in an uncomfortable position, having to lie to him.”
“To be honest, I can’t believe Mycroft hasn’t already told him,” remarked Sherlock.
“Mycroft doesn’t have our permission to tell him. Regardless of what you think about him, he’s trying to do what we decide we want to do when it comes to Oliver.”
Sherlock took a deep breath. “Can we make this decision later? You know I trust Lestrade, I’ve just…grown used to not having it be an issue. It’s one more person who’ll look at Oliver like a curiosity.”
“None of the people we’ve told do that. Not Mrs. Hudson, not Molly. They all just love him. So would Lestrade. Lestrade adores him. It’s not going to change his mind about him.”
“Yes, it is. He’s not going to stop and wonder about unknown mothers that could be influencing Oliver. He’ll expect him to be just like me, because why wouldn’t he be?” said Sherlock, bitterly. “That’s what I don’t want for him. I’ve never wanted it for him. I want him to be him, whatever he wants to be, whoever he wants to be. It’s hard enough given what he is. I want to minimize the number of people who treat him like that.”
“Do you think we treat him like that?”
“Of course not.”
“Neither would Greg.” Sherlock said nothing. John let the silence fall for a moment, then said, “I’m not saying we have to tell him tomorrow. I just… See what you think about the idea. I don’t think one more person knowing is going to be our tipping point.”
There was a pause.
Sherlock said, “He’s okay, you know. He’s safe.”
John didn’t want to talk about this, but he couldn’t resist saying, “No, he’s not.”
“He’s as safe as we can make him, and that’s the best that we can do, and you know that.”
John took a deep breath and turned his face into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock was warm and solid and only about a year earlier John would never have imagined that he would have known these things about Sherlock, that he would have been able to turn to him for comfort and Sherlock would, in fact, have been very comforting. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
Sherlock held him tighter. John felt him brush a kiss over his head. “Now you’ve thanked me multiple times.”
“Now I’m thanking you for being the grounded one when I need you to be. When I’m being irrational, because I didn’t want to take him and hide him and wrap him in cotton wool, but I can’t stop panicking all the same, thank you for being calming and sensible and normal.”
“Well, don’t make a habit of it. It doesn’t come to me naturally and I dislike it.”
John chuckled and moved off Sherlock’s chest, settling next to him. “You know, sometimes I go whole days and don’t think about him,” said John, on a sigh. “Do you think we’ll just have sudden flashes of worry about people like him for the rest of our lives?”
“Probably,” said Sherlock.
“You’re such a reassuring bloke to be married to,” John told him, fondly.
Sherlock rolled, half-covering John. And it was reassuring, all that contact. Trust Sherlock to know it was better than a million words would have been.
***
The rain continued. The lack of interesting crimes also continued. Sherlock embarked on a project to compare the contents of puddles in all the different parts of London. Like clockwork, every afternoon, John would get tired of all of the sulking and suggest that they continue their experiment. John did not go with them, after the first time, where he got soaked by a passing taxi and then was forced to juggle several vials of dirty water and got snapped at for mixing them up. So he sent Sherlock off with an umbrella and an Oliver wrapped in a raincoat and a pair of wellies, and they returned soaking wet.
Not that John had the heart to take Sherlock to task for it, since they always came back glowing with delight over the excursion, and Oliver was in a terrific mood as John gave him a bath, telling John wisely about everything he and Daddy had done. John only understood some of the words but he felt like it was a higher proportion every day, and Oliver was getting better at naming parts of London. John suspected Sherlock was carefully teaching him London geography as they went over the streets. He was also adept now at puddle and wet and rain and raincoat and rain boots and vial and water.
One day, though, Oliver was fussy and nothing pleased him, not even the mouse detective book or Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits or Sherlock proposing that they go and witness an autopsy. Oliver cried and complained and threw his skull across the room and tipped over a stack of Sherlock’s notes that Sherlock really shouldn’t have had in such ready access (although John admitted that telling him that probably hadn’t been the best response to Oliver’s action).
“He is being completely illogical,” Sherlock bit out, trying to re-organize his notes.
Oliver half-whined, half-cried at him and ripped at a page of one of John’s medical books, which he never did because he was normally too busy reverencing those books.
John pulled the medical book out of Oliver’s hands, which caused a full-fledged wail, and said, “He’s bored.”
“Bored? This flat is full of his toys. We can barely move, there are so many toys.”
Everyone in this flat was in a strop, thought John. Truthfully, Sherlock hated when Oliver cried and reacted very poorly to it. John said, “Maybe he’s tired. This is the sort of crying he does when he’s tired. I’ll give him a bath.” John leaned over and picked Oliver up and paused and looked at him.
“He’s not tired,” Sherlock grumbled. “It’s nowhere near his bedtime. He’s just being difficult.”
“Yeah,” said John, not sure what Sherlock had said, and hurrying into the bathroom with Oliver, where he quickly brushed the back of his hand up and over Oliver’s forehead. Warm, John thought. He was definitely warm. Yes, he’d been crying, and that always made him warmer than usual, but John was a doctor, and he could recognize a fever when he saw one.
Oliver cried half-heartedly, annoyed sounds of protest, and John looked at him and thought, Yes, he was being difficult because he didn’t feel well. John should have realized much earlier. And what to do about it? If he went back into the sitting room and told Sherlock about it, it would provoke a major panic. Oliver was already unhappy, he didn’t need Sherlock’s panic on top of it.
John looked at Oliver and Oliver looked back, sniffling miserably. He even looked flushed, now that John was properly looking at him. And his eyes were rimmed with red, tired and heavy.
“Alright, love,” John soothed him, hoping he didn’t sound panicked himself. Because he wasn’t panicked. Of course he wasn’t. He was a doctor and it was a very low fever and it was going to be fine.
John closed the bathroom door and turned the tap on to fill the tub and then, convinced Sherlock wouldn’t be able to deduce he was doing it, he took Oliver’s temperature. 38.5. Which was warm but not alarmingly warm.
“Okay,” John whispered, keeping his voice down and hoping Sherlock wouldn’t be suspicious enough to come check on them. “I’m going to give you some medicine to get your fever down, and then I’m going to give you a nice bath, and then I’m going to put you to bed and you’ll feel better in the morning, okay?”
Oliver had stopped crying. He was still sniffling, but he was now watching with interest as John found the Calpol he’d stuffed in the cabinet.
“Ready?” said John, measuring it out.
Oliver looked at him dubiously but took the medicine. He looked reflective after swallowing, as if he hadn’t made up his mind about the experience.
“Good boy,” said John, and kissed his hair and then undressed him and gave him a bath, thinking.
He had to tell Sherlock. Surely he did. Sherlock would need to know.
But it was such a minor fever. Maybe it would be so minor that it would be so much of nothing that he wouldn’t need to tell Sherlock. He just didn’t want Sherlock to worry. John was a doctor, he knew a fever like this was nothing to worry about.
Oliver seemed cooler when he was done with his bath. Also sleepier. John took his temperature again and it was 38.3 and John, relieved, thought that was movement in the right direction. He wrapped Oliver in a towel and took him upstairs to change him into a sleepsuit. Sherlock was still in the sitting room, having a snappish, one-sided discussion with the television.
John started to read Oliver to sleep, but he was asleep almost as soon as John sat down with him. Sick, thought John. Definitely. But maybe a really minor illness and maybe he would be so much better in the morning that this would all be a thing of the past.
John settled him in his cot and brushed a hand over his forehead. Not really warm. Good.
Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa. John joined him by picking up his feet and making space. Sherlock immediately replaced his feet, this time on John’s lap.
“What are you watching?” asked John, as a lion on-screen prowled after a gazelle.
“Some terrible nature program. They keep getting things wrong.”
John looked at him in surprise. “You know things about lions?”
“I had a case involving a murder in a zoo once.”
“How did I never know about that?”
“It wasn’t a particularly good one. Where’s Oliver?”
Why was Sherlock asking that question? John looked at him, wondering if he was suspicious. Surely it was obvious where Oliver was. “Sleeping.”
Sherlock didn’t look away from the television. “He went to sleep without his skull?”
John glanced around the room, spotting the skull lying next to the rocking horse. Oliver never consented to be put into his cot without his skull. “He must have forgotten,” John said.
“Curious,” said Sherlock, but he sounded distracted by the program still. “Then again, he’s been out-of-sorts all day.”
Because he’d been coming down with whatever cold he’d managed to pick up, thought John but didn’t say. “I’ll take it up to him,” said John, and moved Sherlock’s legs out of the way, took the skull up to Oliver—still sleeping soundly, breaths possibly a little heavier than usual—and then went back to the sofa.
This time when John settled on it Sherlock crawled so that John got his head in his lap instead of his feet. John combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and said, “Seriously? This is what we’re going to watch?”
“Better than Top Gear,” said Sherlock.
“We don’t have compatible television tastes, you and I,” sighed John.
“We can watch a film if you like.”
“Not in the mood to experiment?” asked John, wondering if Sherlock was coming down with something, too.
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“No. It’s just that you don’t usually suggest we curl up on the sofa together and watch a film.”
There was a moment of silence. Sherlock said, finally, “It was a trying day.”
He wasn’t used to losing his temper with Oliver, and it was clearly weighing on him.
John leaned over and placed a kiss onto Sherlock’s head. “Tell me what you know about lions,” he said.
He let Sherlock correct basically every sentence the narrator of the nature program said. And then he yawned and looked at the time and said, “I’m going to go to bed.”
“Mmm,” said Sherlock, without protest.
“What are you going to do?”
“I might read. In among the notes Ollie knocked over was an article I’d intended to read and never got around to. Might as well do it tonight.”
“If you feel inclined to sleep at any point, come to bed.”
“Yes,” agreed Sherlock, and rolled up so John could get off of the sofa.
John kissed his cheek and then went upstairs to check on Oliver one last time. Still sleeping soundly. John laid the palm of his hand against Oliver’s cheek. Not that warm, thought John. Nothing alarming.
He walked back down the stairs, and Sherlock said, “Is there something wrong with Oliver?”
John froze and wondered why he ever thought that he could hide something from Sherlock. “What? Why?”
“Because you never check on him before you go to bed,” Sherlock pointed out, lifting his eyebrows at him. He was still sprawled on the sofa, now holding the article he’d referenced.
“I don’t usually beat him to bed,” replied John.
Sherlock seemed to accept that point, shrugging a bit and turning back to his article.
And then John felt terrible about keeping it from him. That wasn’t fair. “He was out of sorts today,” John began, slowly.
Sherlock’s head whipped up, his eyes narrowed at John, and John swallowed the rest of what he was going to say. This was going to be a mess, thought John.
“Yes?” Sherlock demanded, when John didn’t immediately say anything more.
“Maybe just keep a closer eye on him tonight?” John decided, finally. “It’s not like him to be fussy like that.”
Sherlock nodded, looking suspicious.
John went into their bedroom and closed the door and sighed. Tomorrow was going to be exhausting, he thought.
Next Chapter
Author -
earlgreytea68Rating - Teen
Characters - Sherlock, John
Spoilers - Through "His Last Vow"
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 - Chapter Twenty-Nine - Chapter Thirty - Chapter Thirty-One - Chapter Thirty-Two - Chapter Thirty-Three - Chapter Thirty-Four - Chapter Thirty-Five - Chapter Thirty-Six - Chapter Thirty-Seven - Chapter Thirty-Eight - Chapter Thirty-Nine - Chapter Forty - Chapter Forty-One - Chapter Forty-Two - Chapter Forty-Three - Chapter Forty-Four - Chapter Forty-Five - Chapter Forty-Six - Chapter Forty-Seven - Chapter Forty-Eight - Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter 50
John curled into the momentary stillness of Sherlock Holmes post-orgasm and said, “You know, it wouldn’t bother me if he preferred chemistry.”
Sherlock didn’t respond.
“Oh, come off it,” said John, and kissed his chest. “I know you’re not sleeping. You only sleep after sex when you’re getting the flu.”
“John, if he wants to be a doctor, I think that would be a good thing.”
“So would I. I’m just saying that you seem to be very hopeful that he follow in my footsteps, and I find that very sweet of you, but I actually wouldn’t care.” Yes, it was nice, John thought, but he genuinely didn’t mind if Oliver wanted to be a chemist like Sherlock. “I don’t doubt my influence on him. I don’t feel superfluous.”
“I didn’t think you did,” said Sherlock.
And said nothing else.
John sighed. “This is going to be one of those conversations, is it? Where you make me work hard for every little nugget of information?”
“You knew it was going to be. That’s why you waited until we were together in the dark.”
“Habit,” said John. “Do you know how many habits I’ve developed with you, Sherlock Holmes?”
“Yes,” answered Sherlock, without hesitation. “I keep track of all of them.”
“In your mind palace?” asked John, curiously.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Is there a whole room devoted to my habits?”
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “It’s a lovely little gallery with French windows to a garden. Very bright. The sun shines in. It’s a little like the light in the south of France.”
John was momentarily surprised. “Really?”
“Yes, really. What did you think?”
“It’s an actual palace, your mind palace.”
“That’s why it’s called that, John.” Sherlock sounded irritated.
John was fascinated. “So my habits are in a sun-drenched gallery. Where’s the rest of me?”
“You’re the west wing,” said Sherlock.
“I’m a whole wing.”
“Of course you are. And Oliver’s the north wing.”
“And what about the knowledge you use to solve actual crimes?”
“South wing.”
“What’s in the east wing?”
“The east wing’s closed,” said Sherlock, shortly.
“Ah,” said John, and kissed his chest again and let it slide.
He thought Sherlock wouldn’t say anything else, but after a while Sherlock spoke again. “I didn’t think about becoming anything but a chemist. Ever. That was what I wanted. From the time I could understand that adults had careers. I wanted to be a chemist.”
“You’re not a chemist,” John pointed out, after a moment.
“No. Then Carl Powers died and the police were rude to me and I thought, ‘I’ll show them, I’m going to solve every sodding crime in the book.’”
“Of course you did.”
“But I liked it. I like it. I do. I can’t imagine doing something else. My parents didn’t approve of it, ever, but by then they were able to dismiss it as just another sign of my sociopathic tendencies. So when I went to university, what did I study? I studied chemistry.” Sherlock fell silent.
John thought of Sherlock’s chemist parents, of Sherlock wanting to be some sort of detective and of studying chemistry at university nevertheless in an effort to please them. “Well, it’s come in handy, hasn’t it?” he said, to try to lighten the tone.
“Yes. But I want Oliver to have the entire world open to him. I don’t want him to pick chemistry because it’s mine. I don’t even know if it is mine, to be completely honest. I’m good at it but I would have been good at anything. Of all the things encoded in my DNA, I’m not sure ‘chemistry’ is one of them. So he should be anything he wants. He should be a doctor if he wants.”
“Or something wildly different.”
“An actor,” said Sherlock.
“A dancer,” teased John.
“Shut up,” said Sherlock.
“A chef,” continued John. “We could use a chef in the family.”
“I agree, a chef is desperately needed.”
“Shut up,” John rejoined, echoing Sherlock, and planted another kiss on his chest, smiling into it. “What if he becomes a bureaucrat?”
“I’ll shoot Mycroft if that happens,” said Sherlock. And then, “We should think harder about Oliver’s mother. So we can answer questions about her.”
“Only lies have details. A wise man told me that.”
“Was it me?”
John chuckled. “No, it was Anderson. Of course it was you.”
“Still. We should come up with something. There are only going to be more questions. You want him to join a playgroup.”
John half-sat up so he could look down at Sherlock, surprised. “What?”
“Oh, don’t even pretend you don’t,” said Sherlock. “I know every thought in this silly little head of yours.” He reached out and tapped John’s head.
John ducked out of his way. “I mentioned that months ago. I haven’t brought it up since.”
“You mentioned it because it’s important to you. You’re not a prattler, you know. You never talk about anything casually. You pretend you do, but everything you bring up is very important to you, otherwise you wouldn’t invest the effort into putting it into words. You don’t see the point of sharing every thought in your head, just the big ones. So you mentioned it, so I remembered it.”
“In the west wing?”
“North, actually. But that’s beside the point.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. If you took him to a playgroup, people would want to know about him.”
“Why? Why couldn’t we just say we adopted him?”
“Because, for obvious reasons, he looks just like me.”
“Right. So we used your sperm and a surrogate.”
“How did we decide on the surrogate?”
“We…picked a name out of a hat?” John finished, lamely.
Sherlock gave him a look. “Point to me.”
“We should just say it’s none of their business. That’s what you would say, anyway.”
Sherlock looked almost startled by the logic of that. “It is what I would say.”
“See? That’s what I mean: Only lies have details. He’s our son. The personal negotiations of our sexual reproduction are our business. Why should we answer any questions at all?”
“You’re right.”
“Oh, damn, I wish you’d let me get my mobile so I could have recorded you saying that.”
“Hilarious,” said Sherlock, as John settled himself back down onto the bed. Sherlock rolled onto his side so he could face him.
“So the playgroup thing,” prompted John.
Sherlock took a deep breath. “I’m not trying to be difficult with you. I just… The world is an impossible place, and we’re going to have to send him out into it soon enough, and can’t we just keep him, for a little while, here with us, safe and sound and happy and loved and just him?”
This, John thought, had far more to do with Sherlock than it had to do with Oliver, but John thought that Oliver was doing just fine and he was willing to give Sherlock time to come around. So John said, “Yes. It’s fine.” And then, “Thank you for tonight.”
Sherlock tipped one corner of his lips up in a smile. “You already did.”
“That was without words. This is with words. Thank you. I needed that.”
“I know you did. I forget that you do. Remind me.”
“I intend to. Even if you do behave like a prat every time.”
“You’d be suspicious if I didn’t.”
“True.” John hesitated, then said, “I think we should tell Lestrade.”
“He knows you need socializing every once in a while. It’s why he goes for pints with you.”
“I think we should tell him about Oliver.” Sherlock didn’t say anything, so John kept talking. “Everyone else knows. He’d keep it a secret. He wouldn’t tell anyone. And it’s putting your brother in an uncomfortable position, having to lie to him.”
“To be honest, I can’t believe Mycroft hasn’t already told him,” remarked Sherlock.
“Mycroft doesn’t have our permission to tell him. Regardless of what you think about him, he’s trying to do what we decide we want to do when it comes to Oliver.”
Sherlock took a deep breath. “Can we make this decision later? You know I trust Lestrade, I’ve just…grown used to not having it be an issue. It’s one more person who’ll look at Oliver like a curiosity.”
“None of the people we’ve told do that. Not Mrs. Hudson, not Molly. They all just love him. So would Lestrade. Lestrade adores him. It’s not going to change his mind about him.”
“Yes, it is. He’s not going to stop and wonder about unknown mothers that could be influencing Oliver. He’ll expect him to be just like me, because why wouldn’t he be?” said Sherlock, bitterly. “That’s what I don’t want for him. I’ve never wanted it for him. I want him to be him, whatever he wants to be, whoever he wants to be. It’s hard enough given what he is. I want to minimize the number of people who treat him like that.”
“Do you think we treat him like that?”
“Of course not.”
“Neither would Greg.” Sherlock said nothing. John let the silence fall for a moment, then said, “I’m not saying we have to tell him tomorrow. I just… See what you think about the idea. I don’t think one more person knowing is going to be our tipping point.”
There was a pause.
Sherlock said, “He’s okay, you know. He’s safe.”
John didn’t want to talk about this, but he couldn’t resist saying, “No, he’s not.”
“He’s as safe as we can make him, and that’s the best that we can do, and you know that.”
John took a deep breath and turned his face into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock was warm and solid and only about a year earlier John would never have imagined that he would have known these things about Sherlock, that he would have been able to turn to him for comfort and Sherlock would, in fact, have been very comforting. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
Sherlock held him tighter. John felt him brush a kiss over his head. “Now you’ve thanked me multiple times.”
“Now I’m thanking you for being the grounded one when I need you to be. When I’m being irrational, because I didn’t want to take him and hide him and wrap him in cotton wool, but I can’t stop panicking all the same, thank you for being calming and sensible and normal.”
“Well, don’t make a habit of it. It doesn’t come to me naturally and I dislike it.”
John chuckled and moved off Sherlock’s chest, settling next to him. “You know, sometimes I go whole days and don’t think about him,” said John, on a sigh. “Do you think we’ll just have sudden flashes of worry about people like him for the rest of our lives?”
“Probably,” said Sherlock.
“You’re such a reassuring bloke to be married to,” John told him, fondly.
Sherlock rolled, half-covering John. And it was reassuring, all that contact. Trust Sherlock to know it was better than a million words would have been.
***
The rain continued. The lack of interesting crimes also continued. Sherlock embarked on a project to compare the contents of puddles in all the different parts of London. Like clockwork, every afternoon, John would get tired of all of the sulking and suggest that they continue their experiment. John did not go with them, after the first time, where he got soaked by a passing taxi and then was forced to juggle several vials of dirty water and got snapped at for mixing them up. So he sent Sherlock off with an umbrella and an Oliver wrapped in a raincoat and a pair of wellies, and they returned soaking wet.
Not that John had the heart to take Sherlock to task for it, since they always came back glowing with delight over the excursion, and Oliver was in a terrific mood as John gave him a bath, telling John wisely about everything he and Daddy had done. John only understood some of the words but he felt like it was a higher proportion every day, and Oliver was getting better at naming parts of London. John suspected Sherlock was carefully teaching him London geography as they went over the streets. He was also adept now at puddle and wet and rain and raincoat and rain boots and vial and water.
One day, though, Oliver was fussy and nothing pleased him, not even the mouse detective book or Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits or Sherlock proposing that they go and witness an autopsy. Oliver cried and complained and threw his skull across the room and tipped over a stack of Sherlock’s notes that Sherlock really shouldn’t have had in such ready access (although John admitted that telling him that probably hadn’t been the best response to Oliver’s action).
“He is being completely illogical,” Sherlock bit out, trying to re-organize his notes.
Oliver half-whined, half-cried at him and ripped at a page of one of John’s medical books, which he never did because he was normally too busy reverencing those books.
John pulled the medical book out of Oliver’s hands, which caused a full-fledged wail, and said, “He’s bored.”
“Bored? This flat is full of his toys. We can barely move, there are so many toys.”
Everyone in this flat was in a strop, thought John. Truthfully, Sherlock hated when Oliver cried and reacted very poorly to it. John said, “Maybe he’s tired. This is the sort of crying he does when he’s tired. I’ll give him a bath.” John leaned over and picked Oliver up and paused and looked at him.
“He’s not tired,” Sherlock grumbled. “It’s nowhere near his bedtime. He’s just being difficult.”
“Yeah,” said John, not sure what Sherlock had said, and hurrying into the bathroom with Oliver, where he quickly brushed the back of his hand up and over Oliver’s forehead. Warm, John thought. He was definitely warm. Yes, he’d been crying, and that always made him warmer than usual, but John was a doctor, and he could recognize a fever when he saw one.
Oliver cried half-heartedly, annoyed sounds of protest, and John looked at him and thought, Yes, he was being difficult because he didn’t feel well. John should have realized much earlier. And what to do about it? If he went back into the sitting room and told Sherlock about it, it would provoke a major panic. Oliver was already unhappy, he didn’t need Sherlock’s panic on top of it.
John looked at Oliver and Oliver looked back, sniffling miserably. He even looked flushed, now that John was properly looking at him. And his eyes were rimmed with red, tired and heavy.
“Alright, love,” John soothed him, hoping he didn’t sound panicked himself. Because he wasn’t panicked. Of course he wasn’t. He was a doctor and it was a very low fever and it was going to be fine.
John closed the bathroom door and turned the tap on to fill the tub and then, convinced Sherlock wouldn’t be able to deduce he was doing it, he took Oliver’s temperature. 38.5. Which was warm but not alarmingly warm.
“Okay,” John whispered, keeping his voice down and hoping Sherlock wouldn’t be suspicious enough to come check on them. “I’m going to give you some medicine to get your fever down, and then I’m going to give you a nice bath, and then I’m going to put you to bed and you’ll feel better in the morning, okay?”
Oliver had stopped crying. He was still sniffling, but he was now watching with interest as John found the Calpol he’d stuffed in the cabinet.
“Ready?” said John, measuring it out.
Oliver looked at him dubiously but took the medicine. He looked reflective after swallowing, as if he hadn’t made up his mind about the experience.
“Good boy,” said John, and kissed his hair and then undressed him and gave him a bath, thinking.
He had to tell Sherlock. Surely he did. Sherlock would need to know.
But it was such a minor fever. Maybe it would be so minor that it would be so much of nothing that he wouldn’t need to tell Sherlock. He just didn’t want Sherlock to worry. John was a doctor, he knew a fever like this was nothing to worry about.
Oliver seemed cooler when he was done with his bath. Also sleepier. John took his temperature again and it was 38.3 and John, relieved, thought that was movement in the right direction. He wrapped Oliver in a towel and took him upstairs to change him into a sleepsuit. Sherlock was still in the sitting room, having a snappish, one-sided discussion with the television.
John started to read Oliver to sleep, but he was asleep almost as soon as John sat down with him. Sick, thought John. Definitely. But maybe a really minor illness and maybe he would be so much better in the morning that this would all be a thing of the past.
John settled him in his cot and brushed a hand over his forehead. Not really warm. Good.
Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa. John joined him by picking up his feet and making space. Sherlock immediately replaced his feet, this time on John’s lap.
“What are you watching?” asked John, as a lion on-screen prowled after a gazelle.
“Some terrible nature program. They keep getting things wrong.”
John looked at him in surprise. “You know things about lions?”
“I had a case involving a murder in a zoo once.”
“How did I never know about that?”
“It wasn’t a particularly good one. Where’s Oliver?”
Why was Sherlock asking that question? John looked at him, wondering if he was suspicious. Surely it was obvious where Oliver was. “Sleeping.”
Sherlock didn’t look away from the television. “He went to sleep without his skull?”
John glanced around the room, spotting the skull lying next to the rocking horse. Oliver never consented to be put into his cot without his skull. “He must have forgotten,” John said.
“Curious,” said Sherlock, but he sounded distracted by the program still. “Then again, he’s been out-of-sorts all day.”
Because he’d been coming down with whatever cold he’d managed to pick up, thought John but didn’t say. “I’ll take it up to him,” said John, and moved Sherlock’s legs out of the way, took the skull up to Oliver—still sleeping soundly, breaths possibly a little heavier than usual—and then went back to the sofa.
This time when John settled on it Sherlock crawled so that John got his head in his lap instead of his feet. John combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and said, “Seriously? This is what we’re going to watch?”
“Better than Top Gear,” said Sherlock.
“We don’t have compatible television tastes, you and I,” sighed John.
“We can watch a film if you like.”
“Not in the mood to experiment?” asked John, wondering if Sherlock was coming down with something, too.
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“No. It’s just that you don’t usually suggest we curl up on the sofa together and watch a film.”
There was a moment of silence. Sherlock said, finally, “It was a trying day.”
He wasn’t used to losing his temper with Oliver, and it was clearly weighing on him.
John leaned over and placed a kiss onto Sherlock’s head. “Tell me what you know about lions,” he said.
He let Sherlock correct basically every sentence the narrator of the nature program said. And then he yawned and looked at the time and said, “I’m going to go to bed.”
“Mmm,” said Sherlock, without protest.
“What are you going to do?”
“I might read. In among the notes Ollie knocked over was an article I’d intended to read and never got around to. Might as well do it tonight.”
“If you feel inclined to sleep at any point, come to bed.”
“Yes,” agreed Sherlock, and rolled up so John could get off of the sofa.
John kissed his cheek and then went upstairs to check on Oliver one last time. Still sleeping soundly. John laid the palm of his hand against Oliver’s cheek. Not that warm, thought John. Nothing alarming.
He walked back down the stairs, and Sherlock said, “Is there something wrong with Oliver?”
John froze and wondered why he ever thought that he could hide something from Sherlock. “What? Why?”
“Because you never check on him before you go to bed,” Sherlock pointed out, lifting his eyebrows at him. He was still sprawled on the sofa, now holding the article he’d referenced.
“I don’t usually beat him to bed,” replied John.
Sherlock seemed to accept that point, shrugging a bit and turning back to his article.
And then John felt terrible about keeping it from him. That wasn’t fair. “He was out of sorts today,” John began, slowly.
Sherlock’s head whipped up, his eyes narrowed at John, and John swallowed the rest of what he was going to say. This was going to be a mess, thought John.
“Yes?” Sherlock demanded, when John didn’t immediately say anything more.
“Maybe just keep a closer eye on him tonight?” John decided, finally. “It’s not like him to be fussy like that.”
Sherlock nodded, looking suspicious.
John went into their bedroom and closed the door and sighed. Tomorrow was going to be exhausting, he thought.
Next Chapter
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-03-20 02:12 am (UTC)Important conversations in the dark are important. (Aww, a whole WING for John in the mind palace!)
The image of Oliver in his little raincoat and boots, collecting puddle water with Sherlock is so adorable!
(And I still say they should tell Lestrade. Because hopefully nothing will happen that will mean they HAVE to tell him, so they should just tell him...)
no subject
Date: 2014-03-20 02:51 am (UTC)Thanks for the update and looking forward to more next week, as always. :)
no subject
Date: 2014-03-20 05:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-03-20 11:23 am (UTC)I don't doubt it, but I guess John will have to put his foot down if Sherlock fusses more than Oliver!
Loved the idea of Oliver splashing in puddles with Sherlock . . .
no subject
Date: 2014-03-21 03:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-03-20 01:23 pm (UTC)I'm sure John knows this and is not telling Sherlock about Ollie's fever because he knows how Sherlock will react - with hyper, almost obsessive, vigilance.
Also, yes to both the play group and telling Lestrade. Ollie is getting to the "mine" age and having him in play group will teach him valuable skills like sharing.
By not telling Lestrade they have him at a disadvantage which is unfair to him.
no subject
Date: 2014-03-21 03:37 am (UTC)Oliver really does need to learn how to interact with people beyond his immediate circle. He'll get there eventually, though!
no subject
Date: 2014-03-20 09:19 pm (UTC)(I do love that John immediately drops it. I wonder what other habits he's formed for Sherlock?)
The other part of that conversation in the dark that I love is the list of occupations that Ollie might be. NO PARTICULAR REASON.
I still think they need to tell Lestrade.
Sometimes I have trouble remembering that there are two ways to react to a fever: us, and everyone else. That said, I agree with the other commenters: John really needs to tell Sherlock, for all the reasons they mention (and I hadn't though of the double dose issue, but they're right - actually, Bill and I tape paper to Andrew's door when he has a fever so we can track his meds and temps when he's sick for exactly that reason.)
But thanks for the email last night. It was hard reading the last part of the chapter, especially John as he's leaving Oliver in his crib, and closing the door behind him, because all of me was shouting at him to go in and stay there the night and not let Oliver out of his sight for one moment. But that's me, and I trust you that whatever happens, it'll be okay. (I just needed a little extra reassurance, and thank you for that.)
no subject
Date: 2014-03-21 03:23 am (UTC)I had so much fun with that list of occupations. ;-)
John does need to tell Sherlock. Although, honestly, he doesn't at all think he's putting Oliver's health at risk because of the double dose issue. John thinks--and I think he's right--that there's no way Sherlock would think to do something as logical and sensible as give Oliver medicine if he were sick. John thinks he would be woken up in a panic with the ambulance already called if Oliver so much as sneezed.
(Which is not to say that there aren't instances where that would be the right response. Just that I don't think it's very likely Sherlock would ever stop to think to give medicine. That is John's Job in Sherlock's head.)
no subject
Date: 2014-03-20 10:14 pm (UTC)What do you mean, post? Where is the scene of Spectacular Sex? Argh, the frustration. :D
“You knew it was going to be. That’s why you waited until we were together in the dark.”
“Habit,” said John.
This is meta. Even your characters know about your liking for Conversations In The Dark. :D
“The east wing’s closed,” said Sherlock, shortly.
Ow, the past he'd like to forget. I wonder if you purposely made this place, the east wing, sound like the threatening East Wind Sherlock talks about at the end of His last Vow?
I wanted to be a chemist.
Probably because he wanted to be a pirate first. He wanted to find a way to change everything in gold.
I’m going to solve every sodding crime in the book.
Stop saying sodding, Sherlock, you know it's not good for Oliver's vocabulary.
“An actor,” said Sherlock.
“A dancer,” teased John.
Or a figure skater.
So you mentioned it, so I remembered it.
I love how remembering everything John-related seems normal and logical to Sherlock.
And it’s putting your brother in an uncomfortable position, having to lie to him.
And we all know that lying is always bad in a relationship.
*looks daggers at Mary*"He’ll expect him to be just like me, because why wouldn’t he be?” said Sherlock, bitterly. “That’s what I don’t want for him. I’ve never wanted it for him. I want him to be him, whatever he wants to be, whoever he wants to be."
I love that. I was a bit worried every time Sherlock said, "He's me."
"I can’t stop panicking all the same, thank you for being calming and sensible and normal.”
“Well, don’t make a habit of it. It doesn’t come to me naturally and I dislike it.”
*giggles*
Sherlock embarked on a project to compare the contents of puddles in all the different parts of London.
And Ollie will always have a soft spot for this experiment. ;-)
http://earlgreytea68.livejournal.com/449476.html
Sherlock didn’t look away from the television. “He went to sleep without his skull?”
Oops.
“Curious,” said Sherlock, but he sounded distracted by the program still.
I wonder how genuine his distraction is.
“Better than Top Gear,” said Sherlock.
Well, I saw an episode that was brilliant actually.
Not that warm, thought John. Nothing alarming.
Hmm. I hope this is not autosuggestion.
“Because you never check on him before you go to bed,” Sherlock pointed out, lifting his eyebrows at him.
Oops again. Now John knows how it feels to be grilled by Sherlock!
Argh, John, and yet you know that lying, even by omission, is a bit not good in a relationship, especially when it's about something so important! And Sherlock is going to know of course, and he'll be fuming, and maybe he'll think he caused Oliver's fever by taking him out in the rain, and he'll feel horribly guilty, and... Oh, the angst! But... it's only a cold, isn't it? *bites her nails and looks forward to the next chapter* (Anyway, it's a good thing we already know that Oliver will be fine at the end!)
no subject
Date: 2014-03-21 03:20 am (UTC)Yup, a little meta wink right there! ;-)
I honestly can't remember if I was thinking about the East Wind when I wrote that line!
This dialogue definitely predated "Working on the Edges." ;-)
Everything John-related is just incredibly important to remember!
Sherlock does say "He's me" a lot, but he says it jokingly, really. And he's proud of it, proud of every bit of Oliver that reminds him of himself, but he also desperately wants to make sure that Oliver has room to be himself, it's actually the most important thing to him considering how his own childhood went.
OMG! I'd forgotten I already wrote a puddle experiment! Clearly I like the idea!
I think Sherlock genuinely is distracted, although not by the show. He's annoyed with himself for losing his temper with Oliver and worrying that now Oliver is going to hate him.
no subject
Date: 2014-03-21 04:15 pm (UTC)Of course it's an actual palace. I don't know why I was even the slightest bit surprised. XD And John and Oliver have their own wings! So sweet, Sherlock-style!
no subject
Date: 2014-03-24 03:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-03-21 04:20 pm (UTC)SoonEventually?