CARPE DIEM
Title: Carpe Diem
Writer: redvalerian
Status of work: complete
Characters and/or pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: G
Warnings, kinks & contents: none - Fluff start to finish
Length: 3145
In which John comes home from Sainsburys to find a chubby baby in their sitting room; a ginger cherub with a smattering of freckles and the unmistakable air someone who occupies the very opposite of a minor position in the British Government. Who could it be? And will the baby bring him closer to Sherlock or drive them apart again?
Written in response to the following prompt: A Kid fic with one character/couple taking care of the Kid version of another character or characters. Somehow it turned into a Sherlock/John fluff piece, as well. So much fluff. Hope that's OK?
CARPE DIEM
John was in Sainsburys, slowly pushing a trolley down the vegetable aisle, and wondering idly why exactly he'd turned into a housewife since moving in with the world's only consulting detective. He stopped to examine the merits of the various stir-fry vegetable combinations on offer, finally opting for the luxury 'Taste the Difference Chinese Vegetable Medley,' complete with extra mushrooms and water chestnuts. Stir-fry chicken with black bean sauce sounded nice. He was heading off to the poultry aisle to get some chicken, when he heard his text alert. No guesses who that would be. Chucking a couple of packs of skinless chicken strips into the trolley first, he got out his phone and read the text.
John: Buy the following and return forthwith: Pampers Junior, jumbo pack; Baby Wipes Large; Reduced Sugar Farley's rusks; Cow & Gate growing up milk, six-pack; Baby bottle with spare teats. SH
"Forthwith, my Aunt Fanny," John muttered, but he didn't query the odd request, just dutifully headed off to the relevant section. Doubtless Sherlock had a reason, and all would be made clear when he got back to Baker Street. As he walked up the aisle he found himself getting a little wistful. This was not a section of the supermarket he had ever had reason to explore, and he didn't suppose he ever would again. It was probably his age, but lately he'd been having intimations of mortality - thinking a lot about death. Well, hardly surprising really, what with Sherlock 'dying' and John himself coming so close to ending it all as a result. It was his near suicide that had brought Sherlock back from the dead in the nick of time, after all. They were still dancing around each other, neither quite ready to admit their feelings, much to the exasperation of all their mutual acquaintances, who just wanted them to bloody get on with it. Even Donovan had said as much.
John just wanted some normality in his life, or what passed for normality in Sherlock's mad world. But where did that leave him, as far as the future was concerned? Alone, eventually, that's where. There wouldn't ever be any little Johns to come after him. He'd never find his soul mate - someone to share life's burdens; to raise a family with; to grow old with. Or rather, he'd never find someone else. Sherlock was it, and John would take what little the consulting detective was willing to give him. At the moment, that largely seemed to be orders, insults and what lately he suspected was a hidden vein of carefully concealed affection. Possibly more than affection. Who knew where it would lead, if anywhere, however? John was resigned to it now. One thing Reichenbach had taught him was that Sherlock meant everything to him. More than a wife. More than a family. More than anything. They were together again, that was the most important thing.
John had been mechanically filling the trolley with things from Sherlock's list, when he suddenly noticed a little set consisting of a melamine bowl and double-handled cup emblazoned with Miffy the rabbit. He'd loved Miffy so much when he was little, and once in a mad moment of sentimentality, Sherlock had admitted that Miffy was a favourite of his too. On impulse, John put the set into the trolley with the rusks and other things from Sherlock's text, and headed off towards the checkout, just as an announcement was made that it was nearly closing time. John looked at his watch.
'It's always later than you think,' he mused.
When he got home, laden with orange bags that were already ripping, he climbed the seventeen stairs and had to open the door to the flat with his elbow. The first thing that met his eye was a very large, wooden playpen, smack dab in the middle of the sitting room. And smack dab in the middle of the playpen was a very disgruntled baby. It was an adorable ginger cherub with bright blue eyes, chubby cheeks and an enraged expression. John was so surprised that he dropped his shopping bags and gaped. In the background, Sherlock continued to lounge on the settee, ignoring the baby, but looking up at John's entrance.
"Jolly good - you're back," he commented. Then, glancing at the baby, he continued: "You have questions, I imagine, but before you ask them, could you please feed that creature?" He pointed towards the aforementioned cherub with a languid wave of his hand and went back to reading the Guardian.
John decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He walked over and knelt down by the playpen, using his most soothing voice. The one that allowed him to coax a smile from even the poorliest of babies.
"Hey there, little guy. What are you doing here? Has that big (quick glare at Sherlock), mean (second glare at Sherlock ), man, (final glare at Sherlock) been ignoring you and calling you names? You're not a 'creature' are you? Don't worry. Doctor John is here now."
He finished by glaring one last time in Sherlock's direction, but Sherlock just rolled his eyes and continued reading his paper.
John returned his glance to the baby, and smiling reassuringly, he reached in to pat its curly locks. Suddenly he heard a snarl and promptly found his fingers snared between two rows of surprisingly sharp teeth. It was rather like being trapped in the jaws of a baby alligator. He started to shout, more in surprise than real pain, when suddenly the baby opened his cherubic lips and let his finger slip free. It glared at John, and then looked down at the alphabet blocks scattered on the playpen floor. It picked up two, then turned towards Sherlock and held up the 'F' in its right hand, and the 'U' in its left, banging them together with chubby hands to get Sherlock's attention. The message was loud and clear. "Fuck You!"
Sherlock looked up, barely suppressing a smile.
"Now is that the sort of language expected of those holding minor positions in the British Government?" he asked the baby. "I thought better of you. You are the elder Holmes brother, after all - appearances to the contrary."
John was still nursing his sore finger which bore the imprints of tiny teeth, but he now stopped as Sherlock's words registered. He looked at the baby more closely. Ginger hair. Chubby cheeks. Smattering of freckles over a tiny pointy nose. Haughty frown. Odd air of the Oxbridge civil servant about him, despite his diminutive size. Oh. Surely not. It couldn't be, could it?
John looked up at Sherlock incredulously. "You're not suggesting," he began, hearing the barely concealed hysteria in his own voice, "that this is your b...b...brother???" Great. He hadn't stammered since primary school.
Sherlock grinned at him. "Use your powers of observation, John. What do they tell you? How often have I said that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?" He paused, then continued, "When you've worked it all out, you might try giving little Mycroft there a rusk to keep his teeth occupied while you change him. He likes his biscuits, does my brother. And it will save your fingers from further injury."
Mister Helpful, that was Sherlock. Not.
John frowned, trying to get his head around it all, but meanwhile he found himself rummaging in the carrier bag and getting out a large, round, Farley's rusk. It looked like a giant vanilla cookie - soft and fragrant and sweet. John unaccountably found himself wanting to nibble it himself. A teething biscuit might be just the ticket with a nice cuppa, right about now. Baby Mycroft made a sound that most closely resembled a growl, and laughing, John held out the rusk with some trepidation. A chubby little hand reached out, snatched it greedily, and began gnawing at once. From the settee, Sherlock snorted, and muttered something about people who couldn't say no to biscuits.
John looked at the baby who was now clutching the huge rusk in both hands. He was absurdly reminded of feeding time at the zoo. It was probably the pointy little teeth that did it, and the way the baby glowered at John the whole time he was chewing, as if he would much rather be gnawing on John's finger, but this would do until something better came along. John was amazed to find himself accepting that this was indeed the all-powerful Mycroft Holmes, but how had it happened and how had he arrived here in the first place? John had only been at Sainsburys for half an hour, for goodness sake. As usual, Sherlock seemed to be reading his mind.
"I don't know much more than you, John. Some of Mycroft's minions delivered him about twenty minutes ago, complete with playpen and changing mat, but nothing else. There was a note in Mycroft's writing simply saying that he would be in this form for the next twelve to twenty-four hours, and that we would need to purchase the rest of his necessities. He had helpfully provided a list, hence my text." Sherlock spoke as if his brother having been turned into a feral infant was a perfectly natural, if rather inconvenient, phenomenon.
John ran Sherlock's words over in his head as he watched baby Mycroft chew on his rusk. The infant had pretty much finished it and his little hands and face were sticky and covered with rusk residue - a fragrant milky, crumby mixture with the consistency of oatmeal. At least he now looked more content and less likely to cause injury to anyone who came within range of those teeth. The baby held out his little hand towards John in the time honoured infantine gesture that meant 'more please.' Said gesture was accompanied with a winning little smile. Clearly Farley’s rusks had magical taming properties.
"Good thing those rusks are reduced sugar," Sherlock shouted from the other side of the room, as John rummaged in his bag again, coming out with another large rusk but also with the box of baby wipes.
"We need to clean you up, first. You're a right mucky pup," he told the baby firmly. Nanny 911 eat your heart out. His no nonsense tone worked its usual magic, and baby Mycroft turned his little face up obediently, even holding out his sticky hands to be cleaned, while at the same time he continued staring greedily at the Farley's Rusk. John laughed again as he reached in to scrub the little face and hands clean, then handed the baby his reward. There was something rather endearing about this version of Mycroft, pointy teeth notwithstanding. John stood and left him gnawing his second rusk, and walked over to Sherlock. The consulting detective tried to hide behind the Guardian, but John was having none of it.
"I don't think so," he muttered, as he yanked Sherlock's paper out of his hands and glared down at him. "Now - I'd like to have a look at this note from Mycroft and while I'm reading it, you can get off your skinny arse and go make up a bottle for your baby brother." His tone was not one to be ignored.
Sherlock jumped up, but before he went into the kitchen he turned and said petulantly, "Fine, but you're still changing him remember. And after the number of rusks he's been eating, I'm pretty sure he'll be filling that nappy sooner, rather than later!"
John walked back to baby Mycroft and looked down. The infant gazed back up at John with his big blue eyes and gave him a quick smile. Amazing what a full tummy will do for a baby's mood. Mycroft held both his little arms in the air, asking to be picked up. He'd finished his second rusk and was covered with goo again, so first John got out another wipe and scrubbed the little face and hands clean. Then he reached down and picked up baby Mycroft, balancing him on his left hip. He smelled like sugar and vanilla and nuzzled into John's neck contentedly. John felt something in his heart breaking a little. He'd never get to have one of these, would he? Not that he wanted this particular baby, but there was something about the warm little body whose arms were suddenly clinging around his neck that made him ache with longing. Sighing, John decided that it was time to change the baby, while he was in such a good mood.
"Sherlock, where's that bottle?" John asked as he laid the baby on the changing mat, which was on the kitchen table surrounded by Sherlock's latest experiment. Sherlock came over with the bottle, which he'd actually managed to fill with baby milk and to heat up to an appropriate temperature. He stood next to John and looked down at his brother who stared back, looking rather more content than he had before. Sherlock handed him the bottle and baby Mycoft grabbed it and began sucking fiercely, with his eyes closed. Perfect time to get this over with.
John pulled the tabs on either side of the nappy, then grabbing the baby's two ankles with his left hand and lifting, he used his right to quickly remove the nappy and its contents, handing it to Sherlock and gesturing with his head towards the bin. A quick sweep or two with the baby wipe, and Mycroft was sweet and clean again. He hadn't even opened his eyes. John resisted the urge to admire his handiwork, although he couldn't help noticing that Mycroft was very well endowed for a baby. He wondered if it was a family trait. Shaking himself, he remembered that it was time to put a new nappy on. No sooner said than done. The entire procedure had taken about thirty seconds.
By now, baby Mycroft had drunk about half his bottle and was clearly about to nod off. Sherlock had returned from his trek to the bin, and now stood next to John, looking down. "I will never admit that I have said this, but he's rather adorable, isn't he?" Sherlock said at last. "Now that he's sleeping, anyway." The bottle lay abandoned on the table, and baby Mycroft looked a picture of angelic content.
"Adorable? Yeah - he is that," John replied after a pause, with a little sigh.
Sherlock leaned over and rested his head on John's shoulder.
"I saw the Miffy mug and bowl in the bag. Why did you buy them John?" Then after a slight pause he continued: "Were you wishing you could have one of these yourself?" He nodded down at the sleeping baby.
John thought about denying it, but for some reason he decided it was time to tell Sherlock the truth. You don't often get a second chance in life, but they had both escaped death so many times. Wasn't it time to start living? The mantelpiece clock thought so. “Tick tock,” it whispered. “It’s always later than you think.”
"I only want one of them if I can have one with you," he said quietly. Then before he could change his mind, he continued speaking quickly: "We could do it, you know. Lots of gay couples have babies. They adopt or they use surrogates. There are so many options. I bet Molly would love to have our baby for us. And just think how beautiful it would be. Even more beautiful than this one."
There was total silence from the man whose head still rested on his shoulder. John's heart started pounding and he was just beginning to panic. What had he done? What if Sherlock went away again? He couldn't survive it a second time. John was just about to speak - to say he'd only been kidding, when Sherlock lifted his head and looked down into his eyes. "Lots of gay couples, you say? Are we a gay couple, John?" Sherlock was staring at him with something like hope in his eyes.
"I'd like us to be," John whispered back, meeting Sherlock's gaze and letting all his longing and love show. To his joy, he saw all that longing and love being reflected back at him from Sherlock's eyes. The taller man leant down.
"Well, as you've bought the Miffy mug and everything," he murmured leaning impossibly close, "I suppose it would be a shame to waste it." His forehead was now touching John's - their noses rubbing gently together. In the background the clock chimed the hour. Carpe diem, it sang. Carpe diem, just as their lips met.
EPILOGUE
A rumpled and sated John and Sherlock staggered downstairs early to see to the baby who they'd left sound asleep in his pen, only to find the sitting room empty. No sign of the playpen or Mycroft. The minions had obviously come and gone in the night. John grinned up at his very own consulting detective who was hugging him from behind. "Guess he changed back while we were..." He hesitated, and blushing slightly added: "...while we were otherwise engaged."
Sherlock leant down and nuzzled his cheek, then turned John towards him so that some kissing could take place. John happily complied for a few minutes, but coming up for air he murmured, "Enough for now. Let me put the kettle on. Man cannot live on kisses alone!"
"This man can," Sherlock pouted, but he let John go after a final flurry of kisses. Next to the kettle John noticed another note from Mycroft. This one was addressed to both of them. Sherlock stole up behind John, and slipping his arms around his waist, began to read aloud over John's shoulder:
Sherlock and John,
I appreciate the way you both looked after me yesterday while I was temporarily incapacitated. I may have to call on your services some time in the future. This is a recurring affliction. In the meantime, may I be the first to congratulate you both? Mummy will be so happy.
PS: Did I fail to mention that this condition is a familial trait? Sherlock will be undergoing his metamorphosis soon, but I can see he'll be in good hands. Take care of him, John.
MH
Sherlock looked aghast, but the expression on John's face was rather different.
"Oh Sherlock," he gasped. "I’ll take such good care of you. And I bet you’ll be the most beautiful baby ever!” The sincerity in his tone was obvious, and who was Sherlock to disagree? After all, wasn’t he the most beautiful grown man he knew? John clearly thought so.
"Well," he replied at last. "I guess what will be will be." Then pulling John more tightly into his arms Sherlock added: "I certainly wouldn't trust anyone else to change my nappy!"
John was unable to reply. His lips were otherwise engaged.
Writer: redvalerian
Status of work: complete
Characters and/or pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: G
Warnings, kinks & contents: none - Fluff start to finish
Length: 3145
In which John comes home from Sainsburys to find a chubby baby in their sitting room; a ginger cherub with a smattering of freckles and the unmistakable air someone who occupies the very opposite of a minor position in the British Government. Who could it be? And will the baby bring him closer to Sherlock or drive them apart again?
Written in response to the following prompt: A Kid fic with one character/couple taking care of the Kid version of another character or characters. Somehow it turned into a Sherlock/John fluff piece, as well. So much fluff. Hope that's OK?
CARPE DIEM
John was in Sainsburys, slowly pushing a trolley down the vegetable aisle, and wondering idly why exactly he'd turned into a housewife since moving in with the world's only consulting detective. He stopped to examine the merits of the various stir-fry vegetable combinations on offer, finally opting for the luxury 'Taste the Difference Chinese Vegetable Medley,' complete with extra mushrooms and water chestnuts. Stir-fry chicken with black bean sauce sounded nice. He was heading off to the poultry aisle to get some chicken, when he heard his text alert. No guesses who that would be. Chucking a couple of packs of skinless chicken strips into the trolley first, he got out his phone and read the text.
John: Buy the following and return forthwith: Pampers Junior, jumbo pack; Baby Wipes Large; Reduced Sugar Farley's rusks; Cow & Gate growing up milk, six-pack; Baby bottle with spare teats. SH
"Forthwith, my Aunt Fanny," John muttered, but he didn't query the odd request, just dutifully headed off to the relevant section. Doubtless Sherlock had a reason, and all would be made clear when he got back to Baker Street. As he walked up the aisle he found himself getting a little wistful. This was not a section of the supermarket he had ever had reason to explore, and he didn't suppose he ever would again. It was probably his age, but lately he'd been having intimations of mortality - thinking a lot about death. Well, hardly surprising really, what with Sherlock 'dying' and John himself coming so close to ending it all as a result. It was his near suicide that had brought Sherlock back from the dead in the nick of time, after all. They were still dancing around each other, neither quite ready to admit their feelings, much to the exasperation of all their mutual acquaintances, who just wanted them to bloody get on with it. Even Donovan had said as much.
John just wanted some normality in his life, or what passed for normality in Sherlock's mad world. But where did that leave him, as far as the future was concerned? Alone, eventually, that's where. There wouldn't ever be any little Johns to come after him. He'd never find his soul mate - someone to share life's burdens; to raise a family with; to grow old with. Or rather, he'd never find someone else. Sherlock was it, and John would take what little the consulting detective was willing to give him. At the moment, that largely seemed to be orders, insults and what lately he suspected was a hidden vein of carefully concealed affection. Possibly more than affection. Who knew where it would lead, if anywhere, however? John was resigned to it now. One thing Reichenbach had taught him was that Sherlock meant everything to him. More than a wife. More than a family. More than anything. They were together again, that was the most important thing.
John had been mechanically filling the trolley with things from Sherlock's list, when he suddenly noticed a little set consisting of a melamine bowl and double-handled cup emblazoned with Miffy the rabbit. He'd loved Miffy so much when he was little, and once in a mad moment of sentimentality, Sherlock had admitted that Miffy was a favourite of his too. On impulse, John put the set into the trolley with the rusks and other things from Sherlock's text, and headed off towards the checkout, just as an announcement was made that it was nearly closing time. John looked at his watch.
'It's always later than you think,' he mused.
When he got home, laden with orange bags that were already ripping, he climbed the seventeen stairs and had to open the door to the flat with his elbow. The first thing that met his eye was a very large, wooden playpen, smack dab in the middle of the sitting room. And smack dab in the middle of the playpen was a very disgruntled baby. It was an adorable ginger cherub with bright blue eyes, chubby cheeks and an enraged expression. John was so surprised that he dropped his shopping bags and gaped. In the background, Sherlock continued to lounge on the settee, ignoring the baby, but looking up at John's entrance.
"Jolly good - you're back," he commented. Then, glancing at the baby, he continued: "You have questions, I imagine, but before you ask them, could you please feed that creature?" He pointed towards the aforementioned cherub with a languid wave of his hand and went back to reading the Guardian.
John decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He walked over and knelt down by the playpen, using his most soothing voice. The one that allowed him to coax a smile from even the poorliest of babies.
"Hey there, little guy. What are you doing here? Has that big (quick glare at Sherlock), mean (second glare at Sherlock ), man, (final glare at Sherlock) been ignoring you and calling you names? You're not a 'creature' are you? Don't worry. Doctor John is here now."
He finished by glaring one last time in Sherlock's direction, but Sherlock just rolled his eyes and continued reading his paper.
John returned his glance to the baby, and smiling reassuringly, he reached in to pat its curly locks. Suddenly he heard a snarl and promptly found his fingers snared between two rows of surprisingly sharp teeth. It was rather like being trapped in the jaws of a baby alligator. He started to shout, more in surprise than real pain, when suddenly the baby opened his cherubic lips and let his finger slip free. It glared at John, and then looked down at the alphabet blocks scattered on the playpen floor. It picked up two, then turned towards Sherlock and held up the 'F' in its right hand, and the 'U' in its left, banging them together with chubby hands to get Sherlock's attention. The message was loud and clear. "Fuck You!"
Sherlock looked up, barely suppressing a smile.
"Now is that the sort of language expected of those holding minor positions in the British Government?" he asked the baby. "I thought better of you. You are the elder Holmes brother, after all - appearances to the contrary."
John was still nursing his sore finger which bore the imprints of tiny teeth, but he now stopped as Sherlock's words registered. He looked at the baby more closely. Ginger hair. Chubby cheeks. Smattering of freckles over a tiny pointy nose. Haughty frown. Odd air of the Oxbridge civil servant about him, despite his diminutive size. Oh. Surely not. It couldn't be, could it?
John looked up at Sherlock incredulously. "You're not suggesting," he began, hearing the barely concealed hysteria in his own voice, "that this is your b...b...brother???" Great. He hadn't stammered since primary school.
Sherlock grinned at him. "Use your powers of observation, John. What do they tell you? How often have I said that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?" He paused, then continued, "When you've worked it all out, you might try giving little Mycroft there a rusk to keep his teeth occupied while you change him. He likes his biscuits, does my brother. And it will save your fingers from further injury."
Mister Helpful, that was Sherlock. Not.
John frowned, trying to get his head around it all, but meanwhile he found himself rummaging in the carrier bag and getting out a large, round, Farley's rusk. It looked like a giant vanilla cookie - soft and fragrant and sweet. John unaccountably found himself wanting to nibble it himself. A teething biscuit might be just the ticket with a nice cuppa, right about now. Baby Mycroft made a sound that most closely resembled a growl, and laughing, John held out the rusk with some trepidation. A chubby little hand reached out, snatched it greedily, and began gnawing at once. From the settee, Sherlock snorted, and muttered something about people who couldn't say no to biscuits.
John looked at the baby who was now clutching the huge rusk in both hands. He was absurdly reminded of feeding time at the zoo. It was probably the pointy little teeth that did it, and the way the baby glowered at John the whole time he was chewing, as if he would much rather be gnawing on John's finger, but this would do until something better came along. John was amazed to find himself accepting that this was indeed the all-powerful Mycroft Holmes, but how had it happened and how had he arrived here in the first place? John had only been at Sainsburys for half an hour, for goodness sake. As usual, Sherlock seemed to be reading his mind.
"I don't know much more than you, John. Some of Mycroft's minions delivered him about twenty minutes ago, complete with playpen and changing mat, but nothing else. There was a note in Mycroft's writing simply saying that he would be in this form for the next twelve to twenty-four hours, and that we would need to purchase the rest of his necessities. He had helpfully provided a list, hence my text." Sherlock spoke as if his brother having been turned into a feral infant was a perfectly natural, if rather inconvenient, phenomenon.
John ran Sherlock's words over in his head as he watched baby Mycroft chew on his rusk. The infant had pretty much finished it and his little hands and face were sticky and covered with rusk residue - a fragrant milky, crumby mixture with the consistency of oatmeal. At least he now looked more content and less likely to cause injury to anyone who came within range of those teeth. The baby held out his little hand towards John in the time honoured infantine gesture that meant 'more please.' Said gesture was accompanied with a winning little smile. Clearly Farley’s rusks had magical taming properties.
"Good thing those rusks are reduced sugar," Sherlock shouted from the other side of the room, as John rummaged in his bag again, coming out with another large rusk but also with the box of baby wipes.
"We need to clean you up, first. You're a right mucky pup," he told the baby firmly. Nanny 911 eat your heart out. His no nonsense tone worked its usual magic, and baby Mycroft turned his little face up obediently, even holding out his sticky hands to be cleaned, while at the same time he continued staring greedily at the Farley's Rusk. John laughed again as he reached in to scrub the little face and hands clean, then handed the baby his reward. There was something rather endearing about this version of Mycroft, pointy teeth notwithstanding. John stood and left him gnawing his second rusk, and walked over to Sherlock. The consulting detective tried to hide behind the Guardian, but John was having none of it.
"I don't think so," he muttered, as he yanked Sherlock's paper out of his hands and glared down at him. "Now - I'd like to have a look at this note from Mycroft and while I'm reading it, you can get off your skinny arse and go make up a bottle for your baby brother." His tone was not one to be ignored.
Sherlock jumped up, but before he went into the kitchen he turned and said petulantly, "Fine, but you're still changing him remember. And after the number of rusks he's been eating, I'm pretty sure he'll be filling that nappy sooner, rather than later!"
John walked back to baby Mycroft and looked down. The infant gazed back up at John with his big blue eyes and gave him a quick smile. Amazing what a full tummy will do for a baby's mood. Mycroft held both his little arms in the air, asking to be picked up. He'd finished his second rusk and was covered with goo again, so first John got out another wipe and scrubbed the little face and hands clean. Then he reached down and picked up baby Mycroft, balancing him on his left hip. He smelled like sugar and vanilla and nuzzled into John's neck contentedly. John felt something in his heart breaking a little. He'd never get to have one of these, would he? Not that he wanted this particular baby, but there was something about the warm little body whose arms were suddenly clinging around his neck that made him ache with longing. Sighing, John decided that it was time to change the baby, while he was in such a good mood.
"Sherlock, where's that bottle?" John asked as he laid the baby on the changing mat, which was on the kitchen table surrounded by Sherlock's latest experiment. Sherlock came over with the bottle, which he'd actually managed to fill with baby milk and to heat up to an appropriate temperature. He stood next to John and looked down at his brother who stared back, looking rather more content than he had before. Sherlock handed him the bottle and baby Mycoft grabbed it and began sucking fiercely, with his eyes closed. Perfect time to get this over with.
John pulled the tabs on either side of the nappy, then grabbing the baby's two ankles with his left hand and lifting, he used his right to quickly remove the nappy and its contents, handing it to Sherlock and gesturing with his head towards the bin. A quick sweep or two with the baby wipe, and Mycroft was sweet and clean again. He hadn't even opened his eyes. John resisted the urge to admire his handiwork, although he couldn't help noticing that Mycroft was very well endowed for a baby. He wondered if it was a family trait. Shaking himself, he remembered that it was time to put a new nappy on. No sooner said than done. The entire procedure had taken about thirty seconds.
By now, baby Mycroft had drunk about half his bottle and was clearly about to nod off. Sherlock had returned from his trek to the bin, and now stood next to John, looking down. "I will never admit that I have said this, but he's rather adorable, isn't he?" Sherlock said at last. "Now that he's sleeping, anyway." The bottle lay abandoned on the table, and baby Mycroft looked a picture of angelic content.
"Adorable? Yeah - he is that," John replied after a pause, with a little sigh.
Sherlock leaned over and rested his head on John's shoulder.
"I saw the Miffy mug and bowl in the bag. Why did you buy them John?" Then after a slight pause he continued: "Were you wishing you could have one of these yourself?" He nodded down at the sleeping baby.
John thought about denying it, but for some reason he decided it was time to tell Sherlock the truth. You don't often get a second chance in life, but they had both escaped death so many times. Wasn't it time to start living? The mantelpiece clock thought so. “Tick tock,” it whispered. “It’s always later than you think.”
"I only want one of them if I can have one with you," he said quietly. Then before he could change his mind, he continued speaking quickly: "We could do it, you know. Lots of gay couples have babies. They adopt or they use surrogates. There are so many options. I bet Molly would love to have our baby for us. And just think how beautiful it would be. Even more beautiful than this one."
There was total silence from the man whose head still rested on his shoulder. John's heart started pounding and he was just beginning to panic. What had he done? What if Sherlock went away again? He couldn't survive it a second time. John was just about to speak - to say he'd only been kidding, when Sherlock lifted his head and looked down into his eyes. "Lots of gay couples, you say? Are we a gay couple, John?" Sherlock was staring at him with something like hope in his eyes.
"I'd like us to be," John whispered back, meeting Sherlock's gaze and letting all his longing and love show. To his joy, he saw all that longing and love being reflected back at him from Sherlock's eyes. The taller man leant down.
"Well, as you've bought the Miffy mug and everything," he murmured leaning impossibly close, "I suppose it would be a shame to waste it." His forehead was now touching John's - their noses rubbing gently together. In the background the clock chimed the hour. Carpe diem, it sang. Carpe diem, just as their lips met.
EPILOGUE
A rumpled and sated John and Sherlock staggered downstairs early to see to the baby who they'd left sound asleep in his pen, only to find the sitting room empty. No sign of the playpen or Mycroft. The minions had obviously come and gone in the night. John grinned up at his very own consulting detective who was hugging him from behind. "Guess he changed back while we were..." He hesitated, and blushing slightly added: "...while we were otherwise engaged."
Sherlock leant down and nuzzled his cheek, then turned John towards him so that some kissing could take place. John happily complied for a few minutes, but coming up for air he murmured, "Enough for now. Let me put the kettle on. Man cannot live on kisses alone!"
"This man can," Sherlock pouted, but he let John go after a final flurry of kisses. Next to the kettle John noticed another note from Mycroft. This one was addressed to both of them. Sherlock stole up behind John, and slipping his arms around his waist, began to read aloud over John's shoulder:
Sherlock and John,
I appreciate the way you both looked after me yesterday while I was temporarily incapacitated. I may have to call on your services some time in the future. This is a recurring affliction. In the meantime, may I be the first to congratulate you both? Mummy will be so happy.
PS: Did I fail to mention that this condition is a familial trait? Sherlock will be undergoing his metamorphosis soon, but I can see he'll be in good hands. Take care of him, John.
MH
Sherlock looked aghast, but the expression on John's face was rather different.
"Oh Sherlock," he gasped. "I’ll take such good care of you. And I bet you’ll be the most beautiful baby ever!” The sincerity in his tone was obvious, and who was Sherlock to disagree? After all, wasn’t he the most beautiful grown man he knew? John clearly thought so.
"Well," he replied at last. "I guess what will be will be." Then pulling John more tightly into his arms Sherlock added: "I certainly wouldn't trust anyone else to change my nappy!"
John was unable to reply. His lips were otherwise engaged.