Fatherly Concern
TITLE: Fatherly Concern
FANDOM: Sherlock (BBC)
CHARACTERS: Sherlock, John, Daddy!Holmes, Mycroft
SUMMARY: Fill for this prompt http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12432.html?thread=64010640#t64010640
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Papa!Holmes always used to sneak up on Mycroft and Sherlock and TACKLE THEM TO THE GROUND BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO LEARN HOW TO FIGHT BOYS.
Papa!Holmes is still a big, scary sunnuvabitch. One day he shows up at 221B and chats with John and has tea and stuff. Then Sherlock comes in and PAPA HOLMES TAKES HIM THE FUCK DOWN.
And Mycroft, too. If you can fit him in somehow.
“Sherlock dear, what's the matter?”
“Ah Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock cried breathlessly, John could imagine all too easily his flatmate slinging an arm around the poor woman's shoulders and leading her back to her own rooms, “Listen carefully, this is very important...”
John sighed.
“He certainly doesn't seem to have changed all that much since the last time I saw him,” Siger chuckled, running a hand through his curly grey hair, “Melodramatic as always.”
John grinned.
“I would definitely say he's relatively consistent in that department.”
Siger's bark-like laugh was drowned out by his son who, seemingly finished doling out instructions to their landlady, shouted John's name once more, before bounding up the stairs.
“I best go see what he needs this time,” John sighed.
Siger laughed, giving him an encouraging clap on the arm as they both stood from the table.
“I'll have tea at the ready shall I?”
“That would be lovely,” John replied, before turning his attention to the ordeal-in-the-making on the landing.
With a deep breath, John opened the flat door and came face to face with Sherlock, doubled over and panting for breath as he struggled to strip off his coat. He wasn't injured in the slightest though, and that was enough to put the doctor in John enough at ease for the rest of him to enjoy his friend's uncharacteristically perturbed state.
Leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest and a smirk tugging at his lips, he asked, “Went for a bit of a run did we?”
Bracing himself against the wall with one hand, Sherlock nodded as he slowly but surely got his breathing back under control.
With a quirked brow, John drawled, “Must have been quite the jog.”
“It was,” Sherlock gasped out between breaths, “Whitechapel... To Here... And It... It was more of a... sprint.”
“Bloody Hell Sherlock!” John cried, “Why the hell did you sprint three and a half miles?”
“Something...Something important...Just wait a second-”
John sighed as Sherlock doubled over again and forced himself to take deep breaths. He wasn't hurt and he wasn't approaching the point where medical intervention would be needed. He was just an absolute idiot.
“You could have taken off the bloody coat,” John muttered.
Letting out one last deep breath, Sherlock straightened up, sweaty and red faced but breathing properly at last.
“There was no time for that,” he replied, running a hand through his hair, much like how his father had done earlier.
“You could have gotten a cab.”
“No time for that either.”
“You didn't have time to take off your coat or hail a cab, but you could spare enough of it to run, no sorry, sprint the three and a half miles
between here and Whitechapel.”
“I tried to hail a cab, none were available,” Sherlock sighed.
“Could have used the tube,” John suggested.
“Been banned for life,” Sherlock replied before snapping, “I'm here now - surely we can agree on that, now will you please let me into
our flat? There's a mad man after me.”
“Of course there is,” John sighed, but he stepped aside nonetheless. “Why's the mad man after you?”
Jogging over to the window and peaking out through the curtains, Sherlock replied, “He seems to think he's doing a good deed of sorts.”
“He thinks killing you is a good deed?” John murmured, before shrugging, “Well I suppose it's an easy enough mistake.”
“I heard that,” Sherlock snapped, “Besides, he's not trying to kill me, he just has this habit of attacking me whenever he sees me.”
“I can sympathise.”
“John, if I wanted your commentary I would have asked for it!”
“My apologies.”
Satisfied his peruser wasn't lurking outside, Sherlock spun around once more to face John.
“I'm going up to my room now,” he announced, clearly fighting the urge to glance back down at the street, “And I'm going to stay there until I've gotten word this man has left London. Clear?”
“Yes sir,” John replied with a half hearted salute.
“Now, my instruction for you are the same as those I gave Mrs. Hudson-”
“Good to know.”
“If a man, about 6'2”, burly, curly hair - more grey than black these days, comes knocking at the door, you're to tell him that you've never heard of a Sherlock Holmes. Who is he? Interesting name, but you've never met the man, surely you'd remember that sort of name - understand?”
“Umm-”
“You are to use all the tricks I've taught you regarding the proper way to lying. You are to send him away so convinced that you're an utter buffoon of whom I wouldn't spend my time around even if I was paid to do so, that he never comes to this address again. I have faith in your ability to pull it off.”
“Uhhh, Sherlock-”
“Yes, exactly like that,” cried Sherlock, grinning, “But talking to him and not knowing who I am. Remember that it's very important. You do not know who I am.”
“Sherlock listen-”
“I'm going to my room now,” Sherlock announced, clapping John on the shoulder as he walked passed him, towards the kitchen through which the stairs to his room lie, “Good luck John. I'm sure you can do it.”
John spun around and opened his mouth to call Sherlock back, to warn him that the mad man was in fact in their kitchen. He had every intention of stopping him... but before he could even get a word out his friend was being rugby tackled from the kitchen, straight back into the living room.
“Jesus!”
“Come on boy-o, you can fight better than that!” Siger cried, grappling with Sherlock who was wriggling madly on the carpet where he was being pinned, “I didn't send you to those boxing lessons for nothing.”
“Didn't like the boxing lessons,” Sherlock shouted into the carpet, before bucking up against his attacker, knocking him off balance enough for him to flip the man off and began scrambling away. Unfortunately Siger had a hold of him once more before he got too far.
“I was under the impression you enjoyed them,” Siger commented as he struggled to pin Sherlock, who was thrashing about in quite the eel-like fashion.
“I preferred the Baritsu ones.”.
John wasn't quite sure what the hell was going on. He didn't know whether Siger had been telling the truth earlier and was in fact Sherlock's father, or whether Sherlock was right and he was just a nutter out to get him... or whether they'd both been telling the truth and Sherlock's father was in fact an absolute nutter out to get him. As Siger pinned Sherlock to the ground once more cried gleefully, “Don't hold back on your old man Sherlock.” John decided that the latter was certainly the most likely. It definitely explained a lot.
“Father get off of me!” Sherlock bellowed, punching the carpet in much the same manner of a frustrated toddler.
“Sherlock I know you can do better than this,” Siger tutted.
“If you know,” Sherlock huffed, twisting under his father's grasp and lunging upwards, knocking the older man back and pinning him with and arm across his throat, “Why do you insist I demonstrate?”
“Think of it as fatherly concern,” Siger chuckled, “I simply must be sure you can fight properly if you insist on chasing after criminals Sherlock.”
“Well clearly I can,” sighed Sherlock, although a fond smile was tugging at his lips as he said it.
“If I let you up now, you won't try and take me by surprise?”
“Can't make any promises.”
“Father.”
Sighing, Siger reluctantly relented.
“Fine. Fine. On my word, the exercise ends now.”.
“Good.”
John watched, still relatively bewildered, as father and son disentangled, slowly got back to their feet and dusted themselves off.
Siger was the first to start laughing. Sherlock didn't take all that long following his lead.
“Mad man?” he asked, ruffling Sherlock's hair, “I taught you better than that.”
“I used clinically insane last time,” Sherlock chuckled, adjusting his collar before turning his attention to John.
“I was going to tell you,” John announced, holding up his hands and taking a step back away from Sherlock, who was glaring accusingly at him.
“When exactly were you going to tell me?”
“Well if you stopped when I called for you to-”
“You should have called louder!”
“You should have been listening!”
“Alright that's enough!” Siger called, effectively cutting John and Sherlock's bickering short... or at least, prompting a brief interlude.
“Sherlock behave yourself. Dr. Watson, don't let him wind you up for god's sake. The last thing he, or indeed the world needs, is his having somebody else to act up on simply because they give him the reactions he wants.”
“Somebody else?”
“Hmm, yes. Speaking of Mycroft,” Sherlock drawled, flinging himself back onto the sofa, “How did your visit with him go? Did he have a heart attack.”
“Sherlock, be kind,” John sighed.
“I agree with the doctor,” Siger announced, fixing Sherlock with a level stare, “You know he's sensitive about that Sherlock, you shouldn't torment him about it.”
“He torments me about everything,” Sherlock whined.
“No he doesn't.”
“He does,” Sherlock insisted, “He kidnaps anyone who talks to me for more than an hour, he offers them money to spy on me, he acts like I am completely incapable of taking care of myself-”
“You are completely incapabl-”
“Shut up John!”
“Nonetheless Sherlock, you shouldn't poke fun at his weight. What would you do if he got really upset by it?”
“Laugh.”
Siger sighed.
Rubbing irritably at his temples he announced, “In answer to your original question, I've not seen him yet. He's done a better job at hiding than you have.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Does he know you're in London?” he asked.
“Not unless he's had me micro-chipped,” chuckled Siger, “I had the cabby use all the blind spots. Never fear my boy, I'll get him soon.”
One of those grins that John had come to associate with trouble slowly spread across Sherlock's face.
“How would you like to get him now?”
+ +
Mycroft was looking especially smug as he walked through the door of 221B.
“Ah Sherlock, so glad to see you've finally seen reason,” he drawled, case file firmly wedged under the arm that wasn't clutching his umbrella, “This case truly is of the utmost importance and I simply can't spare the time to see it through myself.”
“And of course there's the legwork aspect to think of,” Sherlock sniped, glowering over at his brother from where he sat sprawled in John's armchair.
“Well I suppose there is that too,” Mycroft conceded.
“Not to matter,” Sherlock sighed, noncommittally inspecting his nails as he did so, “As your brother I've made arrangements to maintain your health by ensuring you receive your daily dose of exercise.”
“Exercis-? Oh no.”
“In fact, I've hired a personal trainer.”
“Where is he Sherlock?”
“I think you'll find it most benefici-”
“Sherlock so help me if you don't tell me where he-AH!”
Sherlock and John roared with laughter as Mycroft was tackled, much the same way as Sherlock had been, across the living room by his father.
“Come now Mycroft,” cried Siger, “Surely you can do better than that.”
“Father get off me this instant!”
“I shan't.”
“I'll have you shot!”
“No you won't.”
“Well I bloody ought to!!”