Possibly, I'm Insane

For rifleman_lincoln


Oliver studies the nativity closely. “I understand the baby and the parents and that one there is clearly a shepherd but who are those people?” He points.

“The three kings,” John answers. “Or the three wise men. Same thing.”

Sherlock snorts. “As if kings are ever wise.”

“You would say nobody is wise,” John retorts.

“I would be right.”

“What are they doing there?” Oliver asks.

“Bringing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”

Oliver says, “Those are stupid gifts for a baby, they’re clearly a pretense for their plan to murder him.”

Sherlock suddenly gives the nativity his full attention.

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Sherlock says that baking is just chemistry and so he and Oliver have a whole plan to make crime-scene gingerbread men.

“And women,” Oliver adds. “Women can be murderers, too.”

John wonders if he should be proud of this feminist lesson from Oliver.

In retrospect, John realizes it was foolish of him to pop down to get a cuppa. He’s only gone a few minutes but he comes back to a flat filled with smoke, Sherlock darting around opening windows.

Oliver sits sadly with the remains of his gingerbread men. “They’ve been reduced to ashes.”

“It’s an arson,” John suggests.

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John thinks Oliver should take lessons. As if there’s anything Oliver could learn from other people!

“It’s just that it’s good for kids to learn new skills. Karate—”

“I can teach him self-defense skills.”

“—or cooking—”

“Cooking is just chemistry, I can teach him that, too.”

“These would be edible cooking lessons.”

Sherlock glares at John.

“Ice skating lessons?”

“Stupid.”

“Dancing,” John concludes. “He could learn dancing.”

“Why would Oliver need to know how to tango?” Sherlock asks disgustedly.

“He might want to woo someone someday. I’d like it if you knew how to tango, for instance.”

For rereader 

Sherlock had never really considered getting a tattoo before. It wasn’t that he had anything against them per se, just that he had never encountered anything he wanted permanently on his skin. He saw people covered in tattoos and wondered at how many things they wished unfailingly to see every single day. It seemed absurd to him. Sherlock, in those days, couldn’t imagine ever wanting to see anything every single day. Even a good murder would get boring.

But these days, looking at John and Oliver, Sherlock understands tattoos. There are things he wants to see every day, unfailingly, permanently.

For rifleman_lincoln 

It’s a good thing they don’t do Father Christmas, because John has no idea when he would accomplish the subterfuge of bringing in the presents, given how scattered Oliver’s sleep schedule is.

But on the Christmas when Oliver is five, he surprises John by falling asleep in front of the fire early in the night, a book on communicable diseases open on his chest. John doesn’t have any secret presents to arrange, so he sits and watches Oliver sleep.

The clock chimes midnight, and Sherlock doesn’t even look up from his experiment when he murmurs, “Merry Christmas.”

“Indeed,” John agrees.

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John is flummoxed by why only half of the Christmas bulbs are working. Oliver has been frowning over the strand for twenty minutes, tweaking fuses and poking at filaments. John would not let most five-year-olds play with electricity, but this is Oliver.

Who eventually stands up, drags the pile of bulbs over to the window (open to clear the fumes from Sherlock’s dubious experiment in the kitchen), and flings the whole lot out before John can stop him.

“They’re broken,” he announces. “Moving on.”

John makes sure no one on the pavement below has been hurt by tumbling Christmas bulbs.


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Sherlock was, predictably, willing to engage in the decorating of gingerbread people if it meant they could be decapitated or otherwise mutilated with plenty of red icing to represent the blood gushing from gory wounds.

John remarked, “To any other child, this might be traumatic.”

Oliver happily munched on a severed leg.

“What’s traumatic about this?” Sherlock demanded. “It’s a fake murder! True trauma is having to sit and listen to the vapid conversation of Mrs. Hudson’s so-called ‘baking friends.’” Sherlock’s voice dripped scorn.

John laughed. “Were you enlisted to help bake the gingerbread?”

“It was torture,” Sherlock clipped out.

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The headmaster insisted on summoning Oliver’s fathers, who arrived expecting the worst.

Dad said, “What’s all this? The school is still standing. I thought at least you would have caused some damage if you did indeed orchestrate an explosion. As I was told.” Dad frowned at the headmaster.

Oliver said, “It wasn’t an explosion, it was a little bit of sodium and potassium in water.”

“Not ‘a little,’” the headmaster harrumphed. “A great deal. The laboratory is unusable now.”

“It’s science,” Dad snapped. “Science never hurt anybody.”

“Not entirely true,” said Papa, and, “We’ll pay for it to be cleaned.”

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“People keep buying Oliver the most hideous toys,” Sherlock complained.

“It’s a sign of affection,” John told him.

“Is it? Because they’re hideous. I’d rather they didn’t show affection if their affection manifests in hideous things.”

“What is so offensive about a toy boat?” John asked.

“The colors!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Look at the colors!”

“Babies like bright colors.” John shrugged.

“Babies,” Sherlock said, in a tone of voice that implied Oliver must be left out of that category.

John said, “You know, it’s to help them learn what the colors are.”

“No need. Oliver already knows,” said Sherlock.

“Of course.”

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“I think it’s preposterous,” Oliver said. Preposterous was four-year-old Ollie’s favorite word.

“What is this time?” John asked, because everything was preposterous these days.

“The idea that a fat man could deliver all the presents in the world in a single night being pulled by reindeer. Coming down everyone’s chimney. It’s preposterous. Why doesn’t everyone else see it?”

“Maybe they like to believe in a bit of magic.” John regarded this little miracle child fondly. “I know I believe in a bit of magic.”

Oliver huffed.

But he didn’t tell his classmates there was no such thing as Father Christmas.