Chapter Text
“The story’s done. Time to go to sleep.” He closed the book and put it down on the floor.
“More!”
“No. I said just one story tonight.”
“Want more stories, Daddy.”
“I know you do, but it’s late and you’re tired and I want you to shut your eyes and go to sleep.” John leaned forward and tucked Sherlock’s bee under the covers. “There. You’ve got your bee.” He kissed him on the forehead and stood up. Sherlock whimpered. “No. None of that. Daddy’s going to bed, too.” He turned on the nightlight and turned off the lamp.
“Not tired!”
“You’re so tired that you don’t know you’re tired,” John responded. “Shut your eyes and I’ll bet you’ll be asleep before I even brush my teeth.”
“No! Not tired! ” Sherlock threw his bee at Daddy. It bounced gently off his chest and landed on the floor.
“That was not a nice thing to do.” He picked up the plush figure and patiently tucked it back under the covers. “Good night, Sherlock.” He turned to exit the room. This time it was Sherlock’s pillow that hit him.
“Sherlock,” he said a bit more firmly, picking up the pillow. “It’s late, you’ve had a busy day, and you need to sleep.” He tried to put the pillow back on the bed.
“No no no NO!” Sherlock flailed and smacked John’s hand away.
John knew that tone; that pitch. Wound up, cranky, overly tired consulting detective was headed for a meltdown. Well, nothing he could do about it but let it run its course. He knew from experience that no amount of soothing, distracting, or even shouting was going to stop it. And he knew what he had to do.
John turned and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him. From the solid thunk, this time he was fairly sure that it was the book that Sherlock had hurled in his direction.
*
Thirty minutes. Thirty. A record. John rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Sherlock had kept up full-out strop for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of screaming, crying, and throwing things. He was sure that by now all the bedding was on the floor and every single storybook in the room was flipped open, pages torn. He wondered if he had yanked everything out of the drawers yet. He was thankful that over time he had gradually removed some of the heavier objects from the room; there wasn’t much else for Sherlock to throw.
But he was showing signs of slowing down now. The thumps of objects hitting the door were less frequent. The screaming was hoarse. The sobbing was drawn out.
And then, finally, miraculously, it stopped.
Okay. It was time.
John sighed as he warmed the milk in the microwave before pouring it in the bottle. He filled a training cup with cold water. Tucking the bottle under his arm, he went into the bathroom and wet a flannel, wringing it out. Squared his shoulders, undid the latch on the door, and stepped into the maelstrom.
Yup. Just as he had expected. The duvet, blankets, and sheets were ripped haphazardly off the mattress. Most of the dresser drawers were open or pulled out completely, their contents strewn across the floor. Books everywhere. Some pages were ripped out entirely. The nightlight had somehow escaped damage.
And in the midst of it all lay Sherlock, curled up on the mess of bedding on the floor. He was wearing nothing but his pants and was taking hitching, heavy breaths around his thumb.
John’s heart melted.
“Oh, sweetheart. Honey bee. Are you al l right? Did you hurt yourself?” Sherlock nodded miserably and extended his hand. Two of his fingers were scraped, probably from the dresser drawers. John immediately dropped to the floor next to him. “Do you want Daddy to fix it?” Sherlock nodded again. “All right. First…” John took the battered hand and gently kissed the sore fingers. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Carefully, he wiped the tear-streaked face with the flannel. Sherlock’s eyes were swollen and red. Next, he found the tissues and had Sherlock blow his nose, and then he wiped his hands for him. “Can you hold your cup yourself and have some water while Daddy fixes the bed?” he asked. Sherlock nodded and sat up. “Good boy. Let’s get this all straightened out, hmm?”
John efficiently untangled Sherlock from the bedding and made up the bed. It took him a minute to find all the pillows, but he had it done swiftly. He glanced at Sherlock, who was still on the floor, dripping water from his cup onto his leg.
“All right,” he said firmly, taking it away. “Did you drink most of it?” A nod. “Good boy. Now I think that someone needs clean jimjams, yeah?” He had to search quite a bit through the clothing, and it would take him some time to get everything back in the drawers, but eventually he founds pyjamas for Sherlock and for himself. “Do you need clean pants?” Sherlock nodded sadly. “It’s all right. Stand up.” He slid the pants down—thankfully they were only damp—and clean ones back up, then the pyjamas.
“All right. Into bed, and then Daddy is going to change, and then I’ve got something nice for you.” Sherlock crawled under the newly-tidied blankets and sat up against the headboard. He put his thumb back in his mouth and John let him.
Two minutes and he was changed himself. Laundry and further tidying could wait for tomorrow. He glanced around, though, and on the far side of the bed, and finally under it. Ah. There it was. He slid under the covers with a sigh and handed Sherlock his bee.
“Now, my sweet boy, come cuddle and have some nice warm milk, and then it’s time to go to sleep, yeah?” He gently slid the teat into his mouth and whispered “Drink it all up.”
Sherlock was asleep before half the bottle was done.
*
A week later John reached for his baby boy’s hand, but the crowd held him back; kept them apart.
“No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please.”