Censorship
“Absolutely not.”
“You let Margo read your medical texts.”
“That’s different and you know it.”
Sherlock forced back his anger, controlling his voice to stay cool and detached. “I don’t think we should censor what he reads.”
“I think he’s six years old and won’t understand what that book entails.”
“He understands plenty”
“Of course he understands.” John’s hands flew up to pull on his hair in frustration. “He knows all the facts, who does what, what laws were violated, but he is not mature enough to understand the implications of that kind of mindset”
“I read similar books at his age.” John was silent and Sherlock nearly ground his teeth into powder. “That’s it isn’t it? You don’t want him to turn out like me. Well John, hiding books from him isn’t going to cure a sociopath!”
“You’re not a sociopath.”
Their argument was interrupted by the sound of a book hitting their end table. Cynric’s head hung as his hands left the cover, The Encyclopedia of Brilliant Murders glaring in obnoxious lettering.
“It’s ok. I don’t want to read it.” A low growl escaped Sherlock’s throat and John’s shoulders slumped in a sigh. He picked up the book tentatively and took Cynric’s hand.
“Let’s read it together ok?” Cynric looked up at John curiously. He hadn’t been read to since he was three. John didn’t spare a look at Sherlock on the way to the living room.
Plopping on the couch he spread the book out on his knees. Cynric sat at his side his eyes already scanning the gory images with a curious glee very similar to Sherlock’s. John’s eyebrows pinched together at the grinning madman framed on the page.
“I need to tell you about someone first.” John wasn’t sure how to start the conversation, it was already giving him a headache and he found himself sighing again. Margo’s head popped up from where she was comparing two of John’s medical tomes. She got up to take John’s other side realizing something important was happening.
“About when I first met your Poppa a name had surfaced belonging to a criminal mastermind responsible for most of the serious crime in London. That name was Moriarty.” John continued to explain the different crimes they had initially connected to the man. That they learned he called himself a criminal consultant on their first meeting with him and how he was so evenly paired with Sherlock. The book was soon forgotten as Cynric and Margo’s attention was completely on their father as he told them about Moriarty’s threats and how he came after Sherlock’s family. How their lovely Mrs. Hudson had nearly been harmed when 221 Baker Street was set on fire. How Mycroft was even attacked though he was a man impossible to get tom Moriarty come far too close. And all the instances that Moriarty had gotten to John and one time he had gotten too close. “Your Poppa was . . . afraid.” John smiled sadly. As much as it touched him that Sherlock’s fear was founded in losing him, he had never wished to be a weakness to the man. “He hadn’t slept in weeks. He was always checking windows, checking doors. He wouldn’t let me leave a room without him. He was exhausted.”
“What did you do?” Cynric’s eyes squinted up at him, an exact copy of Sherlock’s and John smiled.
“Nothing.” The memory still left him feeling helpless. John unconsciously pulled his children closer to him. “I followed your Poppa out of the country and he found some way to separate us so he could face Moriarty alone. I should have known better, should have known he wouldn’t normally let me out of his sight but I thought the distance was putting him at ease and didn’t want to shatter his new found calm. Your Poppa faced off against his enemy and they both died. Or so Sherlock had us believe.” John pressed his face into his hand for a moment to quell his rising anger before continuing. “He was dead for two years before he came back. He had to take care of a few of Moriarty’s men before it was safe to come home again.” John said with forced conviction. The truth being he would have rather followed Sherlock around the world for two years, facing whatever dangers if it meant he would never have had to face the loss of the man.
Margo patted his face knowingly. She always surprised John with her astuteness. Where Sherlock could be oblivious to emotion Margo had a six sense for it. The children asked him questions then, because they were Sherlock’s children and needed to know the details to rationalize the appropriate motivations and reactions. They wanted to know how he died, why John thought he was dead, how Sherlock came back. And John answered every painful question until they were both satisfied.
They were now propped up on his lap looking at him attentively. He looked down to find Cynric’s hand wrapped in his own and smiled. “Moriarty had a great mind. Just like your Poppa’s. And he would have said that he had no weaknesses because he only loved himself. But the truth is what makes us weak is what makes us human and what makes us human makes us strong. Your Poppa beat Moriarty because he was protecting the people he loved. If you don’t care,” John paused recounting the numerous arguments he’s had with Sherlock about the victims and the lives involved. “If you don’t care about the people in the world you misuse them. That’s what turns a great mind into a dangerous one.” John picked the book up from where it had been discarded on the couch cushion and placed it in between them. “These men all made that same mistake. And your Poppa is a better man for not having been so foolish.” John kissed their foreheads and shifted so his head was ducked eyes level with them. “So let’s make a deal. If you want to read about these idiots” John pointed to a particularly crazed looking man on the cover and the children giggled. “We’ll read about them together. Is that alright?” They both nodded at him with smiles on their faces. “Good.”
“And next time Poppa can read with us too?” Cynric quipped still smiling.
“Definitely.” John was beaming now, a weight having been lifted from his shoulders. “But right now you have,” John looked at his watch. “Ten minutes before bed. Better make the most of it.” Their father might not sleep like a human being but his children were going to. They slid off his legs, Margo returning to the medical journals and Cynric brought the book back to Sherlock’s shelf.
John pushed himself off the couch to go look for Sherlock. He found him sitting against the wall in their hallway looking thoughtful.
“That was . . . “ Sherlock mouth smirked up at the last time he used the phrase. “good.”
John nodded at the man his mind recounting their earlier argument. “I don’t want to ever hear him called a sociopath again, Sherlock.” John voice was weary and he felt tired. “We both know how easy it is to start living up to what people label you.”
Sherlock nodded, looking equally tired. They were not use to fighting. It was painful not to be on each other’s side. John smiled warmly down at him and then got to his knees to sit alongside him, resting his head on the detective’s shoulder.
“I said I was self-diagnosed but my father had been the first person to call me one.” Sherlock nearly whispered. John’s heart warmed at the concession. He said nothing, only laced his fingers with the other man’s.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was late. Sherlock was on his laptop working on a new case Lestrade had sent their way. John was in the habit of staying up with the detective until he passed out. Which was the case now, with John sleeping across the couch facing the back cushion, his head resting on Sherlock’s leg. It was such a common occurrence they had decided to invest in a more comfortable piece of furniture.
“Is Moriarty really dead?”
Sherlock looked up to find Margo standing at the entrance in her pajamas. He closed his laptop in an instant his brows creased in concern. Their children didn’t have nightmares normally. No monsters dredging up from the unknown. When their sleep was interrupted it was usually by possibilities, predictions, variables, floating through their head.
“Of course.”
“Daddy thought you were dead.”
“I saw Moriarty.”
“Daddy saw you.” Sherlock cringed at the image of John Watson staring at a mangled corps made to look like Sherlock Holmes. The things they forgave Mycroft. “Daddy and I see a little differently. And I personally ran blood tests, checked fingerprints, and DNA samples.” Margo seemed appeased by this and nodded. She crawled over John until she was sitting next to the doctor’s legs.
“He made Daddy sad.” She offered. Petting John’s sleeping face. Sherlock nodded as his eyes ran over the slack features of his lover and friend. “But you liked him.”
Sherlock’s eyes shot up to the face of his daughter. Had she really seen that well into him? Was he that transparent? She was looking at him curiously. “Margo-“ Her shoulders shrugged as she brought her attention back to John.
“It’s ok to like the game Poppa,” She said as she nestled in the space between John and the back of the sofa. John’s arm automatically wrapped around her. “because you loved daddy more.”
Sherlock sat with wide eyes on his daughter. That was it wasn’t it? John had always been his salvation, saving him from himself. Absolution he hadn’t known he needed given through the mouth of his six year old daughter. He watched her a moment taking in her sleeping face nuzzled against his lover’s arm. He smoothed her bangs out of her eyes before picking up his laptop and continuing his research. This time with a smile on his face and a lightness he had never felt before.
“You let Margo read your medical texts.”
“That’s different and you know it.”
Sherlock forced back his anger, controlling his voice to stay cool and detached. “I don’t think we should censor what he reads.”
“I think he’s six years old and won’t understand what that book entails.”
“He understands plenty”
“Of course he understands.” John’s hands flew up to pull on his hair in frustration. “He knows all the facts, who does what, what laws were violated, but he is not mature enough to understand the implications of that kind of mindset”
“I read similar books at his age.” John was silent and Sherlock nearly ground his teeth into powder. “That’s it isn’t it? You don’t want him to turn out like me. Well John, hiding books from him isn’t going to cure a sociopath!”
“You’re not a sociopath.”
Their argument was interrupted by the sound of a book hitting their end table. Cynric’s head hung as his hands left the cover, The Encyclopedia of Brilliant Murders glaring in obnoxious lettering.
“It’s ok. I don’t want to read it.” A low growl escaped Sherlock’s throat and John’s shoulders slumped in a sigh. He picked up the book tentatively and took Cynric’s hand.
“Let’s read it together ok?” Cynric looked up at John curiously. He hadn’t been read to since he was three. John didn’t spare a look at Sherlock on the way to the living room.
Plopping on the couch he spread the book out on his knees. Cynric sat at his side his eyes already scanning the gory images with a curious glee very similar to Sherlock’s. John’s eyebrows pinched together at the grinning madman framed on the page.
“I need to tell you about someone first.” John wasn’t sure how to start the conversation, it was already giving him a headache and he found himself sighing again. Margo’s head popped up from where she was comparing two of John’s medical tomes. She got up to take John’s other side realizing something important was happening.
“About when I first met your Poppa a name had surfaced belonging to a criminal mastermind responsible for most of the serious crime in London. That name was Moriarty.” John continued to explain the different crimes they had initially connected to the man. That they learned he called himself a criminal consultant on their first meeting with him and how he was so evenly paired with Sherlock. The book was soon forgotten as Cynric and Margo’s attention was completely on their father as he told them about Moriarty’s threats and how he came after Sherlock’s family. How their lovely Mrs. Hudson had nearly been harmed when 221 Baker Street was set on fire. How Mycroft was even attacked though he was a man impossible to get tom Moriarty come far too close. And all the instances that Moriarty had gotten to John and one time he had gotten too close. “Your Poppa was . . . afraid.” John smiled sadly. As much as it touched him that Sherlock’s fear was founded in losing him, he had never wished to be a weakness to the man. “He hadn’t slept in weeks. He was always checking windows, checking doors. He wouldn’t let me leave a room without him. He was exhausted.”
“What did you do?” Cynric’s eyes squinted up at him, an exact copy of Sherlock’s and John smiled.
“Nothing.” The memory still left him feeling helpless. John unconsciously pulled his children closer to him. “I followed your Poppa out of the country and he found some way to separate us so he could face Moriarty alone. I should have known better, should have known he wouldn’t normally let me out of his sight but I thought the distance was putting him at ease and didn’t want to shatter his new found calm. Your Poppa faced off against his enemy and they both died. Or so Sherlock had us believe.” John pressed his face into his hand for a moment to quell his rising anger before continuing. “He was dead for two years before he came back. He had to take care of a few of Moriarty’s men before it was safe to come home again.” John said with forced conviction. The truth being he would have rather followed Sherlock around the world for two years, facing whatever dangers if it meant he would never have had to face the loss of the man.
Margo patted his face knowingly. She always surprised John with her astuteness. Where Sherlock could be oblivious to emotion Margo had a six sense for it. The children asked him questions then, because they were Sherlock’s children and needed to know the details to rationalize the appropriate motivations and reactions. They wanted to know how he died, why John thought he was dead, how Sherlock came back. And John answered every painful question until they were both satisfied.
They were now propped up on his lap looking at him attentively. He looked down to find Cynric’s hand wrapped in his own and smiled. “Moriarty had a great mind. Just like your Poppa’s. And he would have said that he had no weaknesses because he only loved himself. But the truth is what makes us weak is what makes us human and what makes us human makes us strong. Your Poppa beat Moriarty because he was protecting the people he loved. If you don’t care,” John paused recounting the numerous arguments he’s had with Sherlock about the victims and the lives involved. “If you don’t care about the people in the world you misuse them. That’s what turns a great mind into a dangerous one.” John picked the book up from where it had been discarded on the couch cushion and placed it in between them. “These men all made that same mistake. And your Poppa is a better man for not having been so foolish.” John kissed their foreheads and shifted so his head was ducked eyes level with them. “So let’s make a deal. If you want to read about these idiots” John pointed to a particularly crazed looking man on the cover and the children giggled. “We’ll read about them together. Is that alright?” They both nodded at him with smiles on their faces. “Good.”
“And next time Poppa can read with us too?” Cynric quipped still smiling.
“Definitely.” John was beaming now, a weight having been lifted from his shoulders. “But right now you have,” John looked at his watch. “Ten minutes before bed. Better make the most of it.” Their father might not sleep like a human being but his children were going to. They slid off his legs, Margo returning to the medical journals and Cynric brought the book back to Sherlock’s shelf.
John pushed himself off the couch to go look for Sherlock. He found him sitting against the wall in their hallway looking thoughtful.
“That was . . . “ Sherlock mouth smirked up at the last time he used the phrase. “good.”
John nodded at the man his mind recounting their earlier argument. “I don’t want to ever hear him called a sociopath again, Sherlock.” John voice was weary and he felt tired. “We both know how easy it is to start living up to what people label you.”
Sherlock nodded, looking equally tired. They were not use to fighting. It was painful not to be on each other’s side. John smiled warmly down at him and then got to his knees to sit alongside him, resting his head on the detective’s shoulder.
“I said I was self-diagnosed but my father had been the first person to call me one.” Sherlock nearly whispered. John’s heart warmed at the concession. He said nothing, only laced his fingers with the other man’s.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was late. Sherlock was on his laptop working on a new case Lestrade had sent their way. John was in the habit of staying up with the detective until he passed out. Which was the case now, with John sleeping across the couch facing the back cushion, his head resting on Sherlock’s leg. It was such a common occurrence they had decided to invest in a more comfortable piece of furniture.
“Is Moriarty really dead?”
Sherlock looked up to find Margo standing at the entrance in her pajamas. He closed his laptop in an instant his brows creased in concern. Their children didn’t have nightmares normally. No monsters dredging up from the unknown. When their sleep was interrupted it was usually by possibilities, predictions, variables, floating through their head.
“Of course.”
“Daddy thought you were dead.”
“I saw Moriarty.”
“Daddy saw you.” Sherlock cringed at the image of John Watson staring at a mangled corps made to look like Sherlock Holmes. The things they forgave Mycroft. “Daddy and I see a little differently. And I personally ran blood tests, checked fingerprints, and DNA samples.” Margo seemed appeased by this and nodded. She crawled over John until she was sitting next to the doctor’s legs.
“He made Daddy sad.” She offered. Petting John’s sleeping face. Sherlock nodded as his eyes ran over the slack features of his lover and friend. “But you liked him.”
Sherlock’s eyes shot up to the face of his daughter. Had she really seen that well into him? Was he that transparent? She was looking at him curiously. “Margo-“ Her shoulders shrugged as she brought her attention back to John.
“It’s ok to like the game Poppa,” She said as she nestled in the space between John and the back of the sofa. John’s arm automatically wrapped around her. “because you loved daddy more.”
Sherlock sat with wide eyes on his daughter. That was it wasn’t it? John had always been his salvation, saving him from himself. Absolution he hadn’t known he needed given through the mouth of his six year old daughter. He watched her a moment taking in her sleeping face nuzzled against his lover’s arm. He smoothed her bangs out of her eyes before picking up his laptop and continuing his research. This time with a smile on his face and a lightness he had never felt before.